Just Ask

Ask me, and I will tell you about her body,
the scent, faint cedar and vanilla,
lingering in the shadow
just beneath her breast,
the chamois of the skin
inside her wrist, ask me and I will tell you
how my tongue between
her fingers makes her moan as if
it were my lips between her thighs,
about the gentle pulsing
of the vein behind her knee and how
it calls me like the rivers of
imagined childhood journeys, ask
about the sweet spot on her neck and I will tell you stories
of the soft place on a newborn's head. Ask me
anything to do with her and I will spin you tales
that may someday be truth, if only
deep inside my mind where hope lies cradled, waiting.

 
Asylum

The women of the asylum
comfort her, dance
through her dreams holding
each other like lovers. Yea,
though I shuffle through dingy corridors
in plastic slippers, my robe and my rag doll
comfort me. The only prayer
she's ever heard that makes sense.

The women of the asylum
band together like trees,
like a forest they stand immobile,
send their roots
through cracked tile, through concrete.
Reaching. Deep. Melting
through scarred walls. Calling
a name. Hers.

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