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emily-clarkePoems
The Serpent’s Meat “…and dust shall be the serpent’s meat…” Isaiah 65:25 An expanse broken only by the small wooden house with a chimney and surrounded by a reddish thick soupy dust clogging the air and dampening the senses: seeping in the cracks in the wood on the walls, flavoring our cereal in the morning and musty kisses exchanged under a creaking ceiling fan at night. Waking, we find a dusty film and salt flats weighting our faces and bodies- wherever the sticky-sweet was leftover from the night before when our bodies had arched; hip-bone mountain ranges rising and falling while the sun rose and set, scorching every minute into nothing, and yet there is something. There is something about the dust sparkling on the ends of your eyelashes, the way it mixes on my tongue I spread your thighs, and I come away mud-faced, and you come away panting. The dust, mixed with your wetness, red like war paint- evidence of my conquering the landscape, which is your body. The valley which rests between the hills nestled against the expanse of the desert, all leading to the muddy forest which is buried between the crevices. The salt of your earth, I cannot escape it.
0
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
The Serpents Meat
The Serpent’s Meat “…and dust shall be the serpent’s meat…” Isaiah 65:25 An expanse broken only by the small wooden house with a chimney and surrounded by a reddish thick soupy dust clogging the air and dampening the senses: seeping in the cracks in the wood on the walls, flavoring our cereal in the morning and musty kisses exchanged under a creaking ceiling fan at night. Waking, we find a dusty film and salt flats weighting our faces and bodies- wherever the sticky-sweet was leftover from the night before when our bodies had arched; hip-bone mountain ranges rising and falling while the sun rose and set, scorching every minute into nothing, and yet there is something. There is something about the dust sparkling on the ends of your eyelashes, the way it mixes on my tongue I spread your thighs, and I come away mud-faced, and you come away panting. The dust, mixed with your wetness, red like war paint- evidence of my conquering the landscape, which is your body. The valley which rests between the hills nestled against the expanse of the desert, all leading to the muddy forest which is buried between the crevices. The salt of your earth, I cannot escape it.
emily-clarke
Written by
emily-clarke
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
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