women marching left and right
more slender and more graceful
tall and calm and dainty
so astonishingly tasteful
moving like a stormy breeze
both powerful and gentle
i wish they’d come and visit
in the mirror on my mantle

- p. winter

walk on, my dear
left foot then right
for i am cursed
with lover’s blight

amid the tears
i’ll smile for you
you won’t look back
i’ll mourn for two

walk on, my dear
right foot then left
you’ll love again
i’ll die bereft

- p. winter

his hand so softly stroking my hair
snaking along my neck
pressing in the valley
‘tween my shoulder blades
down
down
down my spine
circling each vertebra

he carves my curves out from stone
hips and thighs and flesh and bone
his thumb traces the profile
of the ***** of my nose
and the smirk of my lips
trailing down my sternum
the outlines of my ribs
and stomach
all the round and all the sharp

the dimples
the freckles
the scars
all finishing touches
touches
o’er my body of clay
‘cross my skin of paint
covered in his fingerprints
humming as he works

and i take whatever form he asks of me

- p. winter

In strength I think I’m ready,
I can laugh and start anew,
But in illness I’m reminded,
At my weakest
I want nothing more
Than you.

- p. winter

tell me how to bottle up a sound.

would I wear it as perfume,
let the world know I am doused in poetry, and dissonance, and coffee grinds?
or would I dare risk it wafting into the stale, unworthy air?
perhaps I’d wear it ‘round my neck,
never to open and relive the wonder,
only to hold close against my soul,
to feel its magic seep into my skin,
a home to return to
when doubts creep in through my ribs.

tell me how to keep it with me
forever.

- p. winter

we fade to hazy shadows
     with the darkness and the cold
we acquiesce to blindness
     without lover to behold
we lose ourselves to yearning
     with no prize for being bold
we leak into tomorrow
     with our hearts of rot and mould

- p. winter

I shall not force your fist to uncurl,
But, should your hand open,
Of its own volition,
Mine will always be ready to hold.
How dangerous, my readiness
To be yours.

- p. winter