12 January 2019

femme-in-feast

your collarbone is a wishbone well 
holding saltwater sweat, as your cupping navel
pools a thousand stars' light
walking the valleys between the knuckles
on your left hand, I linger where the honey
gathers, envious of the bees their drunken feast;
snugging myself between your tongue and teeth
my mouth is a shell, waiting on
your dancing fingers, as they tip the scales
of the earth's skin; far beyond these shores
a heart is hollow, cold-carved;
my autopsy must be executed
in your hands -
this breaking of flesh from bone
is a promise, upheld
wildflower seeds
for a love's famine 


# weed my garden
word bitten in 100

13 comments:

  1. Wow, this twists and turns, every time i thought i had hold of it, it spun itself gloriously loose again, and that's how a poem should be. Canada, you've gone all Chick-Bone again, just when I had you renamed. From the first line to the last, this sizzles and frosts, both.

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  2. A feral appetite in this (yes, for the "drunken feast" of bees), carnal and carnivorous, biting down into the substantial presence of the/a beloved. For beyond that, what? Waste, the heart which is "hollow, cold-carved." To seize the moment is to devour and give oneself up as bread to be broken. How famished this poem. How bitingly real.

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  3. Love this especially; "this breaking of flesh from bone is a promise, upheld wildflower seeds for a love's famine." Breathtaking write!💞

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  4. beautiful - your beginning sentence is so enchanting and you keep the spell going throughout.

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  5. Wowzers! So good! I especially love your stellar closing lines.

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  6. I would love to see this poem on stage. I can see the speaker thrashing--somewhere between desperation and ecstasy--waiting to be taken, torn to pieces, and then wholed. The final promise, after the breaking... all glorious blooms.

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  7. I adore the intensity of intimate exploration depicted in such lush metaphoric language.

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  8. Now this is a poem I can get my teeth into! I love the title, alliterative and suggestive, and lost myself in the sensuality and imagery of the poem. Great use of internal rhyme in ‘your collarbone is a wishbone well’ and the sibilance of ‘saltwater sweat’ sounds like whispers. The lines that stand out for me:
    ‘snugging myself between your tongue and teeth
    my mouth is a shell, waiting on
    your dancing fingers, as they tip the scales
    of the earth's skin’
    and
    ‘a heart is hollow, cold-carved;
    my autopsy must be executed
    in your hands’.

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  9. Ooh, the heat in this rises like through the boiling water — your tone and tenor sets the mood perfectly in the first line itself and the images and motifs that follow only make this feast more sumptuous. This autopsy seems to be a natural flow of things where there is that collarbone and naval, and tongue and teeth, and the expansive skin. I am baffled by "love's famine". What an intriguing verse!

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  10. Oh my, sensuous and serious and simply splendid.

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  11. From the title to the last line, this is sooo luscious!

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  12. Wow, wow. This is so wonderful, the opposite of hollow, really.

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December's Sacred + Profane Spontaneous Combustion: the word spell casting within these sheets is: in a progressive state of birthing + all written content is copyright ad infinitum – to this site, my alter writing egos + the muse.

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I keep company with words, the wolves and the forested wilderness.