Monday, October 12, 2015

Stale milk and honey

There is perfection,
when all along I thought there was
no such thing,
in little breath.
the way
a curled tongue sighs a quiet warmth
on your chilly Goliath finger tips
checking,
once again,
her exhale.
Uncharacteristically long lashes
curl across to form a bridge
from her eyes
to your's:
a holy moment.
a month-old-moment,
a first gasp of air,
her tilted head,
a million times over you would--
for that moment.
And in it goes,
whisping through a tiny passage
clouded by tiny particles
but clear from the cutting of spring.
you draw so close
her pupils turn to four
and one velvet cheek could nearly wipe the freckles
from your face.
Vowing to not disturb the half-second,
the process
where her Lilliputian whisper, every muscle turning,
is spinned to silk,
you won't breathe.
And out it comes
like the Santa Anas
from the mountain pass of her parted lips,
slipping through the valley
where it flowers and fills
your air with new breath,
scented softly,
stale milk
and honey.


e. chayes


















































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