Wednesday, April 18, 2012


image borrowed from bing


Sex is in the eyes and the smell and the past.
The hint of sweat from straw-colored hair.
The taste of a smile.
The lilting voice.
The slow catch of silk on nipples.
Delilah, I miss you. I miss
Tulsa dying in the rearview, the sickly linger
of your cigarettes. But I’m not humping
the passenger seat anymore. Remember the time
we got stuck in a ditch chasing a field fire?
A farmer called a sheriff, refused to tow us,
and kept his snake-rifle on us while we scrambled
to find wood to shove under the tires.
He was afraid we’d steal the night, the fire,
the slow death of not knowing
what to believe that choked his heart.
But we were all first sons, whistle-britches, all looking
for a place to stick our hearts for safe-keeping.
The boarded- over windows of our mothers’ eyes
watched from graves half dug
but not full yet. We were forever looking back,
we will stand tall when the winds die down.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

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