A Prompt Exercise

So, was given the prompt to write a poem about ‘taking out the trash,’ and I actually kind of like it so, hope you enjoy.

I have much appreciation for the talent
Of actors playing crowded scenes
In New York city streets.
At the height of summer,
When the sidewalks trap you like night club floors.
As the liquids flow from plastic bags,
And they somehow pretend
That the sticky, sweet scent of rot
Is simply part of fantasy

Prelude

Third and final preview from the new Zoe Dean short story collection, Then You Say Please.

He asks you,
“What does it feel like?”

A reasonable question;
But how do you answer?

It’s a constant, pressing need
A pilot light waiting to grow
Ignite to an inferno

How could you express that desire in words
Explain the claiming, aching hunger
That will devour you if not satiated

You pull him to you
With patience you do not have
And slowly describe
How the fire feels under your skin

Do you bite?
Do you beg?
Plead,

Or attack?

Because language is sighs and grunts,
Moans and screams
Tangles of limbs and sweat,
Fingers in hair,
Squeezing around skin,
Pinning the claws against his back.

Jaws snapping,
Thighs squeezing.
A roar that could be yours or his,
Or never have happened at all

Yet in the after,
In the quiet stillness
Where time could be measured in seconds,
minutes,
or hours,
And still all feel the same
He still wants to know.

So, you suppose,
You will have to show him
All over again

Until he finally extinguishes the flame

Interlude

Another sneak preview from the upcoming short story collection, Then You Say Please

He says,
“I don’t like how the word feels in my mouth.”
He tells you,
“I don’t like the shape of the words.
I could call you so many things, my dear,
But they don’t sound right coming from my lips.”

You look at him, confused, as his fingers trail to your chin,
Tilting your head up, oh so gently

“I want to ask the question.
I want to hear the sounds that you emit.
The words stuck in your throat,
As I drive sense from your brain.

I want to feel you around me
As I make you say you’re mine.

More than your agreement,
I want your affirmation.
I want to taste the air as you call yourself
My whore
My slut
My toy.

It sounds so much better in your voice
To hear you say, or try to say,
In every way you want me.”

On A Drunk Text #2

Does the liquor bring my name to your lips 
The taste of smoke 
The sweetness of the oak 
Does it remind you of me 

Does drinking make you think of me 
Of your whispers in my ear 
My skin under your hands 
My softness against your strength 

Because I think life has done me an unkindness 
In that those people that meant the most 
Came back, eventually
In one form or another 
The grief both dissipated and compounded by a never ending presence 

And time flows like honey 
All at once, more quickly than you anticipate 
Then slowly, drip by drip 
And I’m watching the end of the spoon, waiting, as it crystallizes before my eyes 

Waiting for your message 
Your call
Your anything

Why am I only this eloquent when I’m not sober 
The words, the emotions, buried
Like the French long forgotten in that December so far past 

Je voudrais parler avec toi
Je voudrais passer de temps avec toi
Parce que tu me manques 

And I know you will come back 
Eventually
But you know I will leave
I have left you before
Forgotten you in summer nights
Shut you against the cold of this city

So I’m left with that song
The lick of the guitar
The taste of rye an assault against my throat
Your name on the tip of my tongue 
And swallowing it down and down and down 

And pretending I don’t miss you
Until you appear again, with that simplest of questions
“How have you been?”

You are like an itch in the back of my skull
A place I can not scratch without you there
No matter how much I pretend I’m getting over you

So, my love, tell me.

Is it just the bourbon talking

Or do you miss me too?