The sound of your voice
Enters through my veins,

It runs havoc as I listen to
You speak how your day went,

Chained by the tremble
In between words

and the way your lips
Would taste like honey,

I try to concentrate but my
Eyes set me loose

As I trace the moles around
Your body,

Constellation of fallen stars
Adorn you from head to toe,

I connect them with stellar
Imagination and wonder,

Which one would I plant
A kiss on first,

Then second,
Then third,

I would spend many days,
And maybe months,

Traveling the wild waters
Of your curves,

On a sail boat,
I hope for a tragedy,

For the wind to get too
Rowdy and tip me over,

So I can swim on the corners
Of your hips,

And drown on the shores
Down your legs

I woke up
On the right
Side of the bed
Today,

I took arms
The day before
And fought a
War,

That waited
And waited
For me, for
The right moment

To present itself
Upon my door,
And the sky
Looking

The perfect shade
Of baby blue,
A war wagered,
On blood and bones,

And love
and emptiness,
Oh, to win
Again,

On my terms,
And then feel
The breeze upon
My face.

Of course you’ll
miss them,
And songs
will remind you
Of them,
and the color  of
A strangers eyes,
and the pattern
The shadows
create while
You are on shrooms,
You were happy once,
Under incoming fire
And quarantine, in
The sky or on boat,
Undressed, and that’s
Not a pretty sight,
But they loved it,
They loved you,
And that’s not
Easy to forget.

you
not the flower but
the bee kissing
rosebuds, making
living things
bloom

you
no sunrise on
mountains but
the sun
herself, every
flame burning fierce
sploding gainst
the sky

you
not an ocean but
a stream softly
babbling
and rescuing
us,
the lonely
the lost

you
not forever
but tragically
temporary
and every
moment
you are here
i will be
what i am -
the pollen,
the planets,
the wanderer,
the poet -
dedicated to
loving
you

I call my grandma
Mama Myriam,

She’s my dads mom,
So I didn’t spend

Much time with her
Growing up

That doesn’t matter
To her when I call,

She talks as if she
Loves unconditionally,

So difficult to understand,
But the time goes on.

And she tell stories,
Not the ones in books

But the ones that make
Her scars ache,

And I listen,
Attentive,  

Patient,
Quiet,

As the city outside
Rumbles the windows,

And my furniture
Decays where it stands,

She tells her stories,
With a cat on her lap,

You can almost hear
The purrs through

The phone,
And what stories she tells,

About love, and life,
And betrayal, and abuse,

What a life she has lived,
She thanks me for listening,

With an “I love you”
As I ready up to hang up,

No, Mamá,
Thank you.

Who Will Miss Me

Who will miss me
anyway?
The Autumn’s imperative
signals the
long division of my
mind.

Under the geography of
Love is a fear that
nothing

Matters.

Longhaired dreams are
features of the young.

It's the Emblem of the
70's.  The crusts of the
untried. No matter
tears on the rheum.

Why wait for love?

There is a
whisper
in the

afternoon.

Only the sad
know

Literature.


Caroline Shank
August 31, 2024