Thursday, 9 June 2011

Thirty

She spoke to me.
Softly, at first.
Her words, inaudible
a flutter-wing beat,
below a costal cage.

I could feel her,
The soft stroke of breath across my lips,
blood–red heat:
erythrocyte circles,
my limbs: alive,
guided by this gentle drum-beat.

She was there,
subcutaneous, Cellular,
in the scent of my hair,
the curve of my hip,
the strength of my grip,
my ability to stand
to walk, to write, to feel...

A limbic belt - tying together my past, my present, my future.

I had starved her.
Poisoned her.
Burnt her.
Left her out in the cold.

Dragging her, trailing behind me,
forcing her to keep up,
even when she was begging me to stop.

I had ignored her somatic whisper, I pretended not to hear...

I had danced with her,
made love to her.
We shared my deepest thoughts.
With her, I was vulnerable. Open. Exposed.

She had held me up;
and waited, patiently,
whilst I threw her, Intoxicated,
from bar to unknown bedroom.

She had waited for me,
speaking softly at first:

Remember me?
We took our first steps together.
We played, uninhibited, expressive, free.

Remember me?
We have seen it all, felt it all.
Every smell taste and touch.

I remember, She said.
I remember me,
corporeally.
I remember

how to be
bodily
me.

            © Lily LaLoba March 2009

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