What I Do with Love Letters
(Forbidden Love)
In them, I talk about his eyes.
What they say to me across the room.
His foot against my foot
under the table.
The rush of air as he walks by.
His body’s honest odor.
I can’t pull away,
he can’t look away.
And yet we do what is necessary.
When I write what I really want to say,
I stuff the pages in my shoes.
Limp over them.
Dance over them, too.
Let other gentle men
dance me over
songs of him.
I’ve folded him
a paper mouth
to house his tongue.
I want my words on his palate
where he can taste them
salty
fragrant
cheeks
gums
tongue.
I want his tongue to press
my words
against
my cheek,
tattoo them on my face
where I can see them in the mirror.
Instead, I fold them into origami castles,
set them on the sand,
hope the wind and seagulls free them
before beach squirrels
shred them
into their full cheeks
and carry them
to hidden burrows
in the hillside.
The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to write a letter in the form of a poem. This poem is about love letters.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
This is both sensual and spiritual, and heart-breaking.
These lines are painfully beautiful and visually arresting:
“I’ve folded him
a paper mouth
to house his tongue.
I want my words on his palate
where he can taste them
salty
fragrant
cheeks
gums
tongue.”
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Some day I’ll tell the story behind the poem.. but not now. 10 people arriving for dinner in 15 minutes!
Thanks you so much for commenting in such a personal and specific manner.
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Dinner and film night over. 1/2 of the expected people are home with the flu, so the 5 who came ended up trading so many great stories, that we never did get around to the film I was going to show, which was “Lion.” We’ll show it to everyone when they get well. By then however, others will be off to other parts, but that’s okay, too. I’d much rather do what happens than what is planned.
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This is an amazing, beautiful, sensual poem! Wonderful!
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Thanks, Peggy.
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Fantastic poem, heart and soul and body wrapped in one.
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Thanks, Dolly. There is a story behind it. Not fiction.
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I suppose that’s what made it so strong. As the great Russian poet Yesenin wrote, “Poets write with blood of the wounded heart.”
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