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terry-collettPoems
Bernice sits in the seat of the bus and moves to its motion. She smiles at the thought of Ariadne dressing that morning; the slow removal of the nightgown, the hands holding and lifting over her head; the brief nakedness; the pulling over her head of the I LOVE *** tee shirt; the slipping on of blue jeans. Once dressed she leaned over and kissed Bernice’s head. Come on you lazy ***** get yourself out of that love nest, she had said. Someone sits next to her on the bus; disturbing her thoughts; breaking up images. She looks at the person beside her: a man of forty something. She looks away. Ariadne is constantly in her thoughts. She knows her well. She can sense her presence even without seeing her. She knows each part of her body as she dies her own; has lain in the arms and felt the small bosoms press against her. Her one fear was the loss of her; the taking away of her being; the coming of age and death; the coming of illness and departure. Live for the day, Ariadne said, tomorrow’s fiction. Bernice closes her eyes; brings to mind Ariadne’s face; the look of her; the eyes; the way the lips moves; the sway of her hips when she moves from here to there; the feel of her finger along her skin; that closeness, that love, what others call sin.
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Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
WHAT OTHERS CALL SIN.
Bernice sits in the seat of the bus and moves to its motion. She smiles at the thought of Ariadne dressing that morning; the slow removal of the nightgown, the hands holding and lifting over her head; the brief nakedness; the pulling over her head of the I LOVE *** tee shirt; the slipping on of blue jeans. Once dressed she leaned over and kissed Bernice’s head. Come on you lazy ***** get yourself out of that love nest, she had said. Someone sits next to her on the bus; disturbing her thoughts; breaking up images. She looks at the person beside her: a man of forty something. She looks away. Ariadne is constantly in her thoughts. She knows her well. She can sense her presence even without seeing her. She knows each part of her body as she dies her own; has lain in the arms and felt the small bosoms press against her. Her one fear was the loss of her; the taking away of her being; the coming of age and death; the coming of illness and departure. Live for the day, Ariadne said, tomorrow’s fiction. Bernice closes her eyes; brings to mind Ariadne’s face; the look of her; the eyes; the way the lips moves; the sway of her hips when she moves from here to there; the feel of her finger along her skin; that closeness, that love, what others call sin.
terry-collett
Written by
terry-collett
English
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
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