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 Jun 2021 david badgerow
i bask in sunlight **** as peach picked from vine,
je pense... for the rest of time,
could we align?
i've missed her hand this winter, as i've missed you,
she called to say she missed my skin too
juice falls from my eyes as i cry, they say love is blind as i long to see why,
bombs are blown into backyards by the rich world,
while we drink more and more
spring kisses me softly as i strive for my own liberation,
i thought your love would contribute to,
until pride stood in the way with his own agenda
i'm still trying to find
if it's love you sing and contain for me,
or something i mustn't fight
love is to conform to one another, not to dismantle
the other
to step down from ourselves and meet somewhere more earthly and pure in between
build the other from the pain we've produced by our own
two hands
saturday mornings are for love coffee and poetry,
analyzing our bodies for the points of stress and writing from the knots in our mind,
wrestling to relax and grow closer to our soul
i want to learn the language of the birds
perhaps we could talk over coffee if i could speak their delicate words
perhaps you and i could talk if my defenses could lie down to rest,
until the next wound
perhaps i belong only in this light
twirling my words like ribbons around heart's tension
singing along to french music wishing i were a peach in the rural east
swaying with the willows, licking sunlight, dripping into the mouths of lovers,
it is me on which they feast
 Jun 2021 david badgerow
do you write her poetry or
did you let that part of you go too
I shed everything but
the pencil skirt and stockings.
I suffocate and sundry and
drift into my boy's case of
suede leather, where he
trusts me to miscalculate
his competence and its
Saturday, the morning,
and he says, I love you
in the morning, Sarah.
There's stroke and nip,
at every turn of the trail
an adoration for what
he calls my soul, and
he asks for the routine
obliteration. A violence
always whispered.
I'm velvet everything.
Velvet tongued.
Velvet *****'d.
Each portal and contour
a soft place for him to
land, to dispose of his
fear of death,
but what am I supposed to
do with it, the fear of death?
But this is my burden
with the light skipping
through the blinds. Simpler
times, there were, I think.
And a last name he means
to hang on me, always soon
and very soon. Dishes in the sink.
Eternal moonbeams and sun rays.
This is it, I'm afraid.
 Apr 2016 david badgerow
you weave through the heifers with your arms out,
palms down, barely sweeping your fingers across their
hides as if you were gliding them along grains
of wheat or stalks of tall grass, with careful footsteps
as if only you know the way through the hay and straw
(the way you look at me says that there's a difference)

sometime at one or two am you are out walking among them
again, and they all rise with their burdened bodies, swishing
their tails and swaying from side to side with their engorged
bellies, softly groaning and parting. You are some sort of holy
man, they're smart, they know when to move, you say. But
I think differently, there's something in your body--a gentleness
that emanates softly, a warm light that cuts the denim coats and
steel-toed boots, you're hard but your voice comes out in this
southern sing-song that makes my chest ache, ears red and a
laugh as rare as normal midwest weather.

you don't mind, do you? and you fall into the recliner next to me
It doesn't feel the least bit wrong to sleep next to you, doesn't feel the
least bit right to let you do it because i can feel your heart swelling
through your carhartt, don't like to look at you when you're
leaning into the side door, because the sun does you some sort of
righteous justice, spilling into your irises--streaking through your
lips when you speak as if ending every sentence with I dunno is the gospel itself.

just let me know when you make up your mind
the inconsistency of it all doesn't fall on you, I realize,
once again choking on my own insufferable selfishness
not brave enough to make the right decisions (probably)
convincing myself that things can just work out as if
the most wrinkled material doesn't need an iron, needs some steam
needs more than that's just the way I am, this is just the way
you are, and here I am tortured by the thought of telling you
to shut up, how can you have pricked my heart and
still be
So far
I've been hurting lately.

(c) Brooke Otto 2016
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