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
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,
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
Another sneak preview from the upcoming short story collection, Then You Say Please
“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.”
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?