jessewestend

The Potter

Your whole body holds
a wineglass or gentle sweetness destined for me.

When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you out of clay
for my very own potter's hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they are relinquished
a form,
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand,

by P.N.

of Bookmarks and Gas Cards

Your valentine bookmarks my collection of Pablo Neruda translations...
Its uneven cardboard edges obscuring the page in English,
while I fumble with the original Spanish instead.
I read the words outloud, letting each palabra roll off of my tongue
like a wave wrestling with the reef.
I feel the universal translation of meter,
the rhymeless beauty of consonance and aliteration
and I taste the wine on your lips
siempre, always, siempre, always...
I want my hands to read you like a good poem,
but we are not who we were any longer
and your pages now belong in another man's library...
Closing the poem book, I roll towards my computer, hit play
and watch a video of you smoking.
My heart quivers and i feel the chills again,
I know that its impossible, that you are impossible,
and that its best we just stay pen pals...
and yet...
somewhere...


deep in the
back
of my mind....
I am calculating miles per gallon and my ETA.