I've never liked my name,
so I tell you to call me Josie.
The O, an arc over the roses of my childhood
the garden in the front yard
where I fell asleep listening to Ravi Shankars' sitar.
Slipping, dead to the world, among the night blooming jasmine.
A beautiful thing.
Tonight,
future uncertain,
the stone weight of your head, adrift in dream on my hip,
feels a comfort to my blues.
A beautiful thing.
Napoleon for his Josephine,
can feel
the breath that you leave heavy on my thigh.
A beautiful thing.
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 2:48 AM UTC
I've never liked my name,
so I tell you to call me Josie.
The O, an arc over the roses of my childhood
the garden in the front yard
where I fell asleep listening to Ravi Shankars' sitar.
Slipping, dead to the world, among the night blooming jasmine.
A beautiful thing.
Tonight,
future uncertain,
the stone weight of your head, adrift in dream on my hip,
feels a comfort to my blues.
A beautiful thing.
Napoleon for his Josephine,
can feel
the breath that you leave heavy on my thigh.
A beautiful thing.
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