March 6, 2010
By Isabella Mckinley SILVER, New York, New York
Isabella Mckinley SILVER, New York, New York
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Frayed hems of an ancient dress,
rushed and hurried, late like divided hands
that worry through the world
drunk and drifting in the sun.
Then it is blue night
and the world lies sober.
The burning of the sun haunts my chest.
Life descends, throbbing in my ventricles.
Fire is a lazy circle
… renew, destroy, renew, destroy….
A leather glove brushes my finger,
and a hole of sunlight escapes through my palm.
I caress your body with apprenticed hands.
The joy I must learn, for too many years have passed
in shallow darkness,
in rivers of sadness, where you must
console me with worn and weathered fingers.
You entrance me, throw me
into a mangled reverie that sleeps beneath
the gentleness of your form.

I have found my palace.
I readily sell my sadness for a gulp of you.
Love that lies lazily among pages of musty tomes:
flipped by united hands
that rethread the hems of an ancient dress.

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