No Place Like
Don’t say that my heart is the moon;
you aren’t the earth and my love is not a distant
satellite, pulled. My heart isn’t that sharp curve,
a scythe that rises only under cover of darkness.
My heart is not that hole when the moon
is new and its light, absent. My heart is not full;
it does not call to wolves or signal harvest.
My heart is a witch. My heart is a dog.
My heart is a brick. My heart is a tornado,
a wind spinning back on itself. My heart can tear
a house apart. Don’t you get it? My love is oil
and straw. My love is a fear-filled roar. My love
is the red field that lulls. My love is heels. My love
is the road. My love is the impossible journey home.
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4 comments:
Body Language: fist closed, arm at an angle of 135 degrees, driven hard in downward motion.
Mouth says: Yesssssss
Laurel, I confess, I really like your love.
Wow, LKD! This rocks hard. :-)
Thanks, you three, for your kind words here.
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