Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Poetry Wednesday

Dead Things

I'm really worried about the squirrel
on the high point of the roof, sleeping,
with his his belly pressed against the slats.

He reminds me of our ginger cat
who died in a strange place that he had

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Hades' Pitch
by Rita Dove

If I could just touch your ankle, he whispers, there 
on the inside, above the bone—leans closer, 
breath of lime and pepper—I know I could 
make love to you. She considers 
this, secretly thrilled, though she wasn’t quite 
sure what he meant. He was good 
with words, words that went straight to the liver. 
Was she falling for him out of sheer boredom— 
cooped up in this anything-but-humble dive, stone 
gargoyles leering and brocade drapes licked with fire? 
Her ankle burns where he described it. She sighs 
just as her mother aboveground stumbles, is caught 
by the fetlock—bereft in an instant— 
while the Great Man drives home his desire.

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