The Child Is Heaven
You came, masquerade in woman. You were a spirit
adjacent to God and the angel
spilled from projection below my waistline.
But beyond these four walls call home
You walked the boorish sidewalks. I found you
in comfortable wardrobe.
Your hieroglyphics are seen
in grottos filled with bat droppings.
Who are you behind the woman I found
in Freeport August wind? Your hair, alive
like curtains in the draft, motioned to me.
For three slow years
we walked the sea front, fronting;
we kissed. Your tongue in my mouth,
in public places (before the huge sea cows)
painting cartouche in a new cave.
I turn from mother and father, like I did Jesus.
They could read you like the big black Bible.
I missed you … on wintry days. The furnace
was warmhearted and we rubbed our hands
together. Hands will do anything
to rouse a feeling,
like masturbation
and tickling a dirty armpit for a giggle.
We were living a sex life, outside of other senses.
I never cover my mouth; you were everywhere –
the men’s room, the men’s night outs, rum bars,
and in the cemetery; on that flat grave.
Now when I see them …
my words cut my tongue off
and my lips are stitched together with shame.
My heart was damaged, the intercourse gone,
but the home is unbroken. The child is heaven.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
