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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
He's infuriatingly...
pretty...
and I follow myself over his smile to find my eyes, promising uncertainty and chewing on
my bottom lip with the hunger that resides in...
love...
He rolled me over and kissed my dreams, his mouth became my salvation and I nailed myself
to the bedpost as we made love, my legs became morning while I screamed midnight to the
dawn...
and I had never seen such a beautiful sunrise, I had never seen the beginning color herself so
strangely...
I told him, as our eyes appeared shallow, as the light dimmed and he breathed summer on my
neck...
“Blue is blue, Dear, don't try to shade it with red.”
But he explained to me the art of bruises, he informed me the results were beautiful, and
he held up a mirror to my unmarked skin, places where the black and blue and...
purple...
has dissipated...
while he sheltered my chest with his hand, covering my heart with his palm, and told me
the results still beat...
in.me.
I cried, tears of the rain that once fell in April, and he held me, time slipping between
us, beads of sweat that spoke eternity and seven more months, and I spoke silently so he
could hear me, I whispered his name...
“God, you're beautiful,” he said on the second I realized the sadness had left me, that
she had found content and was studying the games we never played with the fascination of a
child, I touched his cheek with the surreal movements that occur when one has fallen and
been caught and smiled at the thought of us...
I sacrificed my pain that night, I handed it straight over to midnight when the day broke,
I blended the sunrise with blue and watched the sky turn purple with him right beside me,
I counted the minutes to eternity and he laughed at my obsessions as he told me I was...
beautiful...
as he drank my belief off my left shoulder with a kiss...
and I looked at him, in the light, my eyes deep with the memories of the sea, as I kissed
him, with a certainty I never questioned as tomorrow started forever...
and he would live inside me
for seven
more
months.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....
maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....
“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
patient tone.
She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....
“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”
And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....
I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...
“Your angst belongs in a museum.”
I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.
“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....
“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
We broke in two and it amused him that I was still counting...
I could hear the night whisper beyond his ears, the bed we lay ourselves down upon and
passion was considerate when his mind let go....
she was direct and unforgiving and I...
gave.in.
I could listen to the tumbling of my heart for ages and I collected music as my lips split
in half, it was only to kiss him, you see, only to allow him to know...
how I bled.
I tasted myself as the night wore on, exhausted yet hungry for his arms, I studied my own
in the afternoon, multiplied my freckles and wondered if my child would be ashamed of the
scars that decorated my skin, prayed she would never know how years could bite, so I
reached for him when the clouds became cold and I became...
scared...
as I frightened myself to death in the realization that we....
were still so alive.
The ground we walked on spoke of faults and mistakes, there were cracks in the earth yet
my hand still held his, he was clueless and I was silent but we slept well, he and I,
after passion erupted and the sky split...
when the clouds collected my music and rain sang, just to show him, how the days
could
bleed.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
She held onto Saturday, with hands calloused and nails bitten
down
to the quick...her eyes saw sunlight and denied it's presence while she rocked, back and
forth, back and forth, to the ticking of a dishonest...
clock.
He told her, in words that cut the air as they fell from a razor sharp tongue, that she
still played the part of the victim, her little girl costumes uncomfortably small, and she
refused to hang herself up, for she had memorized the part and her voice knew
nothing
else.
Her lips parted, still stained with kisses and dripping with the acidic burn of
yesterday's stale tears, and she whispered the truth about choices as she unknowingly lied
to herself
again.
He handed her the script with a brush to her cheek, and she shook her head as life tumbled
viciously around her face, her peripheral vision capturing sight of years long past, and
she informed him that she couldn't read it, she told him she was
scared.
He took her hand and taught her how to smile with the slight tickle of fingers that danced
across a lifeline that posessed trails she was ignoring, he showed her how to not walk
backwards and
the appearance of Sunday if she didn't
trip.
She discovered the moment she was stuck and moved herself beyond the sunset, misty skies
so old that colors had faded and maybe yesterday wasn't as pretty as she thought, maybe
Sunday
didn't lie, and she came to an understanding as she straightened and tossed her sight to
the windows that glimmered with afternoon light...
that glistened with the reflection of twenty years past the weekend and the eyes of a
woman that had seen the formation of a smile
on
Monday.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
He's
sorry
for what he's done....
he's
apologetic, but the moon
she's crumbled in my palms and drenched
in my tears.
I rub my hands across my jeans and shoot stars across my ripped up, tarnished wardrobe
maybe he'll witness me before he closes his eyes
maybe he'll blind himself with tears...
I'm
kicking tomorrow off my feet so I can walk, barefoot, backwards and tattered over yesterday
and March burns the soles of my feet, I begged for quicksand, I begged for February
twentieth...
he held my hand, he held me, he placed his promises on my finger and GOD
how I wished...
my nails weren't broken, how I wished
I
was prettier....
He whispers through handwriting that breathes in the dark..
he begs me to open up to July, to a year later, to
HIM...
and these tears repeat in circles, I
WANT
to believe his truth, I want it to replace my broken heartbeat, I want it to save me and
smudge
moonlight
across my smile.
COME BACK
I beg to this irritable silence...
as if he has a choice now
come back..please,
I say
it's already 2010 and this game has been played since...
I
was 29, my eyes have blinked for you for years now....
PLEASE
stop...
cry us another August and place a halt on your mistakes...
April's cruel, I think, with her distance and control over my decisions, Florida tilts to
the west and I slip, a little, beneath the gifts the sky has given me...
I'm debating...
washing these blue jeans, of tarnishing the moon with Monday...
they're fraying and decorating unshaven knees, but he'd kiss them
he'd kiss my negligence and I'd
be able to forgive his mistakes and the abhorrent bruises that brought us here...
Whisper me St Augustine
and February
Twentieth
I say...
as I twist his promises around my finger...
let me...
hear
your
voice.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2010
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
“This is where we are,” I said, as I aimlessly threw pebbles to my left...
and my hand ripped grass, the destruction of Spring and the creation of happiness as we
gathered ourselves in the midst of nothing-to-do, my nails recovered dirt as my palms
discovered life and he
took.my.hand.
carelessly, without thought, as if it was the only thing to do...
I checked my knees for bruises and found the fading black and blue of Pennsylvania, the
pattern resembled the horizon we gazed at beyond the cliffs where my feet felt slightly
unsure and my fear of heights dared me to step one inch closer to the edge, I had watched
him and found his fearlessness to be divine as he went two inches and ignored the rocks I
had payed close attention to race to the bottom of nowhere as if to find the somewhere
that existed...
beneath us...
I gazed up into sunshine and followed the trail of Saturday clouds, dreams scattering
themselves, their shapes secrets that hid in the middle pages of picture books, and I
imagined us as my tongue spoke the wisdom of A.A. Milne and thought about the
intuitiveness of childhood, I smiled, and inched closer to his side...
“Here we are,” he sighed, slipping his hand underneath the back pocket of my favorite
tattered blue jeans, and as his fingers fumbled with the frays in my fabric, he kissed me,
once, on the lips, a Saturday quiet where only we existed in the time it took breath to
meld and touch, and settle weeks beneath skin in the slight chill of April, and I nodded
as the sky watched us and thought..
we'd make a beautiful picture book, we'd settle in the middle of a page whispering secrets
that could create the smile that spoke of youth.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
I stared at walls and contemplated colors~
I believe it was after midnight~
he spoke of nothing as I imagined the importance behind us, as I imagined the breeze that
was affected by his voice, as I realized nothing intrigued me...
and here we were.
His arms spoke of goosebumps, little shivers up my spine, and September had this way about
her that I wished to somehow capture in mason jars that would decorate the rooms we may
sit in come snow, I knew the reflection of fire across skin and I kissed possibilities as
I watched our seasons...
change.
There's no stopping distance despite the desire to break clocks, minutes and miles are
irreversible, I've found, so I counted them, the hours, and made sure he was touchable and
only an arms length away...
My August arms brushed across his chest, he had the ability to calm though summer still
danced through his heart, my fingertips traced over the forgotten eyelashes that
desperately tried to escape sight and I breathed, sending wishes to the walls that
surrounded us, to the edges that had yet to decide their color, that touched nothing...
yet captivated my attention.
There were shadows that covered us~
I think they appeared right beyond midnight~
but I knew we were swallowing September, I supposed we'd create minutes that would make
us smile come snow and we'd kiss in the reflection of fire...
escaping distance
with the whispers that affected skin.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
My name has been forgotten since last September, it's falling, decorating doorways and
digging splinters into the soles of my feet....
His skin crawls, I want to know where he thinks he's going, I wonder if he thinks he's
taking me...
I wonder if he thinks I'll follow.
There's no icing on the cake and the bed's not made yet, it's mid-morning,
(it's raining again, Dear)
and blankets are mumbling dreams to wrinkled sheets as the mattress constantly gets my
name wrong.
God, he's soaking wet and my towels are somewhere missing, wrapped around my head, I can
muffle this, his voice doesn't resonate so loudly through
last week
(it never rained then, Dear, never a drop on Wednesday)
it's still September, it's twenty months past knowledge and intelligence is simply thirty
days away, I know he's familiar with doing this again and I'm not crazy
yet
but I'm well aware of the way to get there, I've been following him since
before
the August that dusted across my smile when he finally learned how to kiss me.
I whisper this as Autumn falls, I'm catching leaves on my tongue, pretending snowflakes
will save me, sometimes death is the shade of the seventeen strands of my hair that
captured summer and I wonder
how that feels
when he runs his fingers through my curls.
I sleep next to him, his scent erases my name but his lips mumble me, his arms hold me
behind the doors that went missing last January, and I think that maybe there might be
snowflakes in the shadows that are created by candlelight as he tries to be different,
when he makes an attempt to breathe me in, I don't exhale, I don't ever
close my eyes, I only taste regret on the tip of my tongue as
yesterday
rolls off my lips
and follows him straight out of the dreams that will be argued in the morning
when I'm stuck in the doorways that remember winter
as September forgets my name.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2008
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
It's the last time...
I'll shame myself, this skin will never drink again...
my lips will tumble, escaping from the frown that sits above my chin, I'll
taste loneliness and the shadow of forever as I run my tongue across the silhouette of
dishonesty...
and I'll starve, I'll lose my waist as he wraps arms, legs, hands and
lies
around me.
This...
is December, he found me somewhere hidden in these weeks, years ago...
he decided my fate and it doesn't snow here...
the days are all identical, the sky blinks only when she's bored and I've experienced
totality in the mocking indifference of these Southern seasons but tomorrow I'll have
goosebumps, I'll feel the chill of finality and the demise of my dreams.
He's...
broken, I've cut my hands trying to pick him up, I've smeared my blood across these
unforgiving walls and the
whispers, they echo,
I can still hear myself begging for mercy
I can still
hear
him bruise me.
My thighs ache for him, just slide themselves across the abyss of silence and my curls
scream for the intertwining of his fingertips...
my skin
drinks the dreams he shattered, thirsty, dry...
and bleeding...
for salvation.
This...
will be the last time December drops from my eyes, the sunset sits on the edge of my gaze,
I'll reward my body with the feel of him, I'll
suffer my skin and shame my lips...
as he validates my pain...
and I'll starve, as barren as the summer sun, I'll
be the tears of South Carolina
and his only
saving
grace.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2009
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Jeanmarie Marchese Poem
Her eyes amused me, slices of January that held April tightly....
she could rain in snow, drop from upside-down skies, and we held tightly to the tears that
only appeared on the opposite side of closet doors as we marked our claim on unusual with
hand prints that never saw the sun.
Two days could have passed underneath us before we blinked, my windows whispered glorious
promises but we kept them closed for safety, for the opposition of who we could be, and
she knew the secret of every season, she knew how to laugh when bedroom doors...
closed.
I drew her behind the mirror and we created October across December stars, we became
disobedient underneath the glorious names we sang that night for lips speak magic when
they pretend to lie and dishonesty was but a kiss away from sunrise.
Time stung me come August, come March, come the age of thirty-two, her eyes had been shut
for years now and she sunk beneath flowers I am positive would be beautiful enough to
photograph had I the courage to glance, but my feet have never crossed the grass that
blankets her and roots her promises...
tangled beneath tomorrow with a tight grasp on yesterday, and I wonder if the days have
yet to fade the color of her hair.
It rained in January when I existed miles away, teardrops of memories that fell as softly
as the whispers of her name, I closed the bedroom door tightly and listened intensely for
the echoes of dishonesty, for she remained there, somewhere, behind mirrors that painted
her and the lies that bit my tongue, that reassured me...
our hand prints would hide from summer...
covered in ice-cream secrets that screamed her pain from a smile, from a foolish wish that
spoke us inseparable.
Her eyes, blue as October, slapped me, that day, as they painted themselves the secrets
girls are never supposed to witness, as they refused to allow April to fall but declared
honesty
with the beauty that she
could never see.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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