"gesturing" poems
Waiting for the summer heat to eclipse the somber thread of one day, an old man is gifted a brand new pair of sneakers.
Father, Son, Holy Ghost? The pinnacle of the "y" axis has paralyzed the saltiness of the old man's overcoat.
"Grand dad?" A young boy turns the corner and peeks in while the old man leans over in his chair to reach his feet and lace his sneaks. "You were breathing loudly and I was just making sure you're okay."
The boy continued, "cool sneakers grandpa."
This reminded the boy of a new student in his class who moved here from Scotland, or Ireland - he couldn't remember which. Guess what the new kid in my class calls his sneakers?"
The grandfather looks up and leans back, "he doesn't call them sneakers?" "Nope" the boy replies. "I would imagine he must call them shoes, or something like that."
"Not even close. He calls them 'runners'. He came into class one day with a pair of red sneakers and Miss Kerrington had him stand up in front of class to talk about them. She said that people in England probably call them runners as a nickname for running shoes."
The old man stood up with a groan and said, "That makes sense. It seems a bit odd, but I like it. As a matter of fact, I am gonna start using that to refer to all sneakers. What do you say we go for a walk around the block so I can break these puppies in? We'll stop for some rootbeer on the way home."
The two of them set out on their walk and the old man felt invigorated. As they continued, a light rain began and the old man said, "lets get to the store, this rain'll do damage to my new suedes."
When they finally made it to the store, the old man rushed in the door pushing his grandson out of the way. Upon his entrance his eyes met with the shopkeeper's. The shopkeeper's eyes shifted to the young boy coming in behind the man. At this moment the grandfather realized that he pushed his grandson aside in his haste to get inside the store and out of the rain.
The shopkeeper turned his attention back to the grandfather who shrugged his shoulders before gesturing to his feet with a smile and said, "I'm breaking in a new pair of runners. They're not gonna dry off as easily as he does."
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Though the faraway look combs through the glances, the heads lowering and longing
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
The icicle street of perturbing yellow parallel lines and molasses traffic that seems to rake the people across pavement into curvatures of avoidance keep me running.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
I repeat it, a gesturing phrase, recurring, as I watch the transcendent glow, a denouement to a one-sentence story.
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Could have: (What will save the moment in untickable preservation?)
On Fridays, I cannot have you.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Did you know that if you leave your car in your driveway,
With the keys in the ignition,
And someone sits down in the front seat like they own it, and drives away,
You are the one who is liable for theft?
They can drive that sucker to the coast.
They can burn the upholstery with their cigarettes. They can bring their friends into the back seat, and fill the compartments with their refuse, and **** and they can leave it ruined in front of your house, or crushed into the median on the highway, or left in disconnected pieces under an overpass.
It will be called, “unauthorized use of a vehicle.”
It will be called a “misdemeanor.”
But you left the car running.
Weren't you kind of asking for it to happen?
They said,
This,
(Gesturing to the skirt which fell to two inches
above my kneecap),
Is like that.
If I walk outside of my house in jeans and a t-shirt, or a long dress with thin straps,
Or with my chin tilted out,
Or with long eyelashes,
Or with full lips,
Or with my hips swaying when I walk,
It's like I left the car running.
It's like I invited them to force their bodies into the front seat.
In their minds, or with their hands, or with their lips to anyone who would listen to them.
Little girls in leotards become like unlocked car doors;
Where men can burn their cigarettes into their skin,
Or stick their fingers in
In plain view of their parents,
And told to let it happen,
Quietly.
It isn't theft,
It's “a medical examination.”
What did they expect?
It isn't a theft.
She was just as guilty of negligence.
It isn't really a felony.
It's not THAT BAD. (Stop being so dramatic.)
It's the unauthorized use of your body, for a time, or one night,
or every time you close your eyes for the rest of your life,
Sure-
But you left the car running.
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
Once when I saw a *******
Gasping slowly his last days with the white plague,
Looking from hollow eyes, calling for air,
Desperately gesturing with wasted hands
In the dark and dust of a house down in a slum,
I said to myself
I would rather have been a tall sunflower
Living in a country garden
Lifting a golden-brown face to the summer,
Rain-washed and dew-misted,
Mixed with the poppies and ranking hollyhocks,
And wonderingly watching night after night
The clear silent processionals of stars.
3.4k
sun girls:
they’re all bright eyes and warm hands, they’ll kiss you on the cheek. beautiful freckles. glowing skin, sunflowers and paintbrushes gripped tightly in their hand.
moon girls:
dark clothes and a eyes-closed kind of grin, beat up sneakers and an arizona iced tea, hair that shines, they sparkle even in the dark. soft kisses that taste like spearmint.
mercury girls:
smooth talkers, could convince you to do anything. big eyes and round lips, hair tied up or tucked behind their ear. late night walks and quiet conversations.
venus girls:
lipgloss and breathless laughing, soft hands and tummy. kissing their girlfriend randomly. a voice like honey. hypnotizingly lovely. muffled music and strawberry lemonade.
mars girls:
quick winks and subtle smirks. would **** for you. a love deeper than the ocean, strong shoulders and collar bones. ****** knuckles healing over and tight hugs.
neptune girls:
dreamy girls, hazy around the edges. tilting their heads to the side and sleeping soundly. delicate hands and cherry chapstick. hot cups of tea served with knowing eyes.
saturn girls:
sharpened pencils tucked behind their ear. serious eyes with a hint of laughter. tapping their toes and paying attention. books piled high with the pages well loved.
jupiter girls:
moving their hips and applying lipstick. a smile that electrifies you and lips that entrance you. has a hundred admirers but loves the one girl she can’t have. red lights and excitement.
pluto girls:
confidence that carries through the air. tastes like energy drinks and lightning. crooked smile messy hair. continuous movement with no time to talk. gesturing hands and shuffling papers.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
Suddenly, the silence prevails
and approaches me with a verdant orb
in it's hands
The cold wind is passing by
gesturing my reverie
Sometimes harshly
like frozen needles piercing
your naked body
Sometimes softly
like sun beams clasping
your naked soul
Around me blooms
of every hue and for every mood
Each one narrates it's own tale
My shadow revolves around
a cold emerald
I am that colour now
It escorts me to the carriage
of the winter I was longing for
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
(AP) another tragic report today of snow mermaids resurfacing a phenomena of drastic blizzard conditions young men lost in blinding blowing winds that sends a person forging foreword then back a step are sightings of real or imagined snow nymphs naked gorgeous young women giggling frolicking through 8’ snow drifts arching limbs grinding hips twiddling fingers toes swaying long hair spreading thighs exposing privates pinching ******* pursing lips gesturing to be seduced beckoning into freezing snow entrapment eventually freezing victims into lifeless blue corpses only additional forensic evidence left behind are definite female snow angel signature tracks in surrounding snowfall areas since onslaught of February 1st storm strike 18 male bodies missing 13 bodies recovered all found grasping clutching clinging desirously to unknown source 5 men still missing if you suspect the whereabouts of any of these individuals please contact 911 authorities warn men of a certain age wear appropriate winter gear scarves raised hats lowered eyes squinting look away without delay if you think you are witness to one or more of these deadly snow mermaids GPS immediately to Police postscript in the several thousand years since these occurrences have been recorded not a single snow mermaid has ever been caught
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 1:22 PM UTC
We are a people living in shells and moving
Crablike; reticent, awkward, deeply suspicious;
Watching the world from a corner of half-closed eyelids,
Afraid lest someone show that he hates or loves us,
Afraid lest someone weep in the railway train.
We are coiled and clenched like a foetus clad in armour.
We hold our hearts for fear they fly like eagles.
We grasp our tongues for fear they cry like trumpets.
We listen to our own footsteps. We look both ways
Before we cross the silent empty road.
We are a people easily made uneasy,
Especially wary of praise, of passion, of scarlet
Cloaks, of gesturing hands, of the smiling stranger
In the alien hat who talks to all or the other
In the unfamiliar coat who talks to none.
We are afraid of too-cold thought or too-hot
Blood, of the opening of long-shut shafts or cupboards,
Of light in caves, of X-rays, probes, unclothing
Of emotion, intolerable revelation
Of lust in the light, of love in the palm of the hand.
We are afraid of, one day on a sunny morning,
Meeting ourselves or another without the usual
Outer sheath, the comfortable conversation,
And saying all, all, all we did not mean to,
All, all, all we did not know we meant.
2.2k
Norwegian summer night.
She opens her guest room window and
Balcony door to
Give the scent of warm pine and
Sunstroked willow a free tour of her
Apartment on a welcome breeze.
I mute the TV, as she enters her bedroom
Leaving me shirtless in shorts on her
Sofa, headphones nearly plugged into
My laptop when she requests a tuck-in,
Knowing that granting me the remains of
Her Saturday night sixpack means
She's going to bed alone.
I kiss her forehead goodnight. She steals
A bonus hug, wanting it to
Last until morning though it's
Futile. I bury my face in warm, soft
Neck. She
Releases hesitantly. Smiles.
She has bed. I have Johnny Cash and Chet
Baker, Alan Watts and Allen Ginsberg,
Beer, time, and a window of solitude.
"Silent" and "listen" are spelled with
The same letters.
My impairment is that I am a man.
I love her. And the aloneness that
A man can only obtain when
Even the loneliness has left him.
I can't feel my feet, unless she does what
She has learned to do;
Give me space. Space with the texture,
Colour and pattern of the
Blanket one tucks
Around
The legs of someone
In a wheelchair, gesturing by it:
*I love your
Every single
Circle.*
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
Used to smoke a pack a day,
now it’s just two cigarettes
in the evening time,
when the lady is in the shower
and after the ******
has been smoked.
I sit on the ledge of our patio,
legs stretched out
Exhaling long trails of smoke.
observing
the busy apartment complex.
Mainly blacks & Mexicans
with a dash of Apache Junction
white trash.
Two girls
in their early twenties
sit on a bench in the little courtyard
talking loudly.
gesturing wildly
about some ***** neither can stand.
Purple lightning flashes overhead,
illuminating
the courtyard.
Then it begins to sprinkle
And then it starts to rain.
A woman walks down the stairs from her apartment.
She’s barefoot and smiling,
head tilted up towards the sky,
taking in deep breaths
of the good rain smell.
I imagine she’s been waiting for this.
Waiting on the rain.
In her apartment.
It’s really started coming down.
She couldn’t light her cigarette,
the rain was dropping from everywhere.
Two children
run and skip down the sidewalk
with their mother running close behind.
Her arms, both of them,
full of mail, grocery bags, and a baby,
yellin at her kids,
“hurry, hurry, hurry up. C’mon, the mail is getting wet and I got Netflix
here, ********* move your *****
A man in a motorized wheelchair
Emerges from one of the halls
across the courtyard.
I watch his electric chair
buzz by on the sidewalk.
He was going for a full lap
of the place it seemed.
When he passed me, I saw
droplets of rain
breaking on his face and streaming down.
Grinning ear to ear
he winked one eye at me.
made me smile.
This is Arizona.
Rain in the summer is a gift.
Means a lot to us. All of us
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
The man said nothing is real
While making a sweeping gesture with his right hand
It's a simulation he says, all of it, nothing is real
I remember as a kid singing row row your boat
Reminding me to be happy because life is a dream
Again the man states while gesturing, nothing is real
Strawberry Fields, nothing is real, nothing to get hung-up about
The Hindu call it Maya, all an illusion, nothing is real
Science gods working toward virtual reality
Where we can't tell simulation from life, nothing is real
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
Shining lights on a Dalmatian shore
Broken little mirrors on an aqua sea
provides the backdrop for boys wrestling on a concrete diving board
Girls soaking each other with a push button tap
The thin old man in speedos intervenes
One hand holding a roll up
The other gesturing in Croatian
The setting sun behind the city of Split
Is a rusty heat haze for swallows to dart over
Truffle oil fills the air from the cafe
A couple use sign language to speak as the sea roars in
Backs and shoulders covered in beautiful inked art with Angels, crosses and devils
Pine trees provide shelter on the stony beach
Families playing cards and laughing.
The church bells signal it is time to go in
We start up the hill and look back at the sky.
A night to remember and a night to repeat.
Aug 9, 2022
Aug 9, 2022 at 4:28 PM UTC
It's the
old
Blah Blah Blah
it's gonna
drive you mad
It's the
Blah Blah Blah
every time
you turn your head.
The mouths are moving
but you're not hearin
a word
their saying,
like
a dog listening to Russian
it's all
Blah Blah Blah
Bingo
Blah Blah Blah
My partner's complaining
My children are whining
Your parents eyes are dialating
The teacher is lecturing
the bosses are gesturing
the customer is complaining, irate
the salesman with smiles
is bombing your face.
You're told
you're not good enough
fast enough
right enough
tough enough
too slow
too late
you know what they're saying
but
all you are seeing
is
the old
Blah Blah Blah
I'm looking
into
every one's
eyes
they all seem surprised,
I'm not really sure
what it is
they are all really doin',
all I'm hearing
and probably saying
is
the
Blah Blah Blah
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
John is on the playing field
with other boys,
says Sheila,
I am too shy
to talk to him now;
I watch him
from a distance
by the wire fence,
my nerves on edge
wanting him alone.
Other girls pass me by
on to the field;
they giggle and laugh
loudly on their way.
I watch him
as he sits and talks,
take in his gesturing
hands and laughter.
I saw him that time
in the playground
when it rained
and the sun shone
and he said about
a monkey's wedding.
I think of him often
in the day: from early dawn
until bed at night.
He is alone now,
the other boys
have gone,
I hesitate to walk
to where he sits;
my nerves are taut
and still I wait;
he rises
and walks away:
too late.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
I stumbled upon a chapel last night
Inside was a man with a mirrored face gesturing for me to enter
He does not speak but continues to motion and reflect my demeanour
Hesitant to oblige, I survey the inner-workings of the religious structure
No where in my sight lies the truth
A building built on lies and stories
Fables and myths
The man says " You feel lost little sheep, please flock to the power, for I am you, no longer shall you scour, you found yourself within these walls"
I reply
" You are not me, you are a just a reflection, A manifestation caused by fears and I will make peace with what I am by searching inside of me
Not flocking like sheep to a fabled entity"
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
By the maths block
at recess lunch time
Yiska waits for Benny
sunshine's
above her head
Benny said
to meet her here
other kids
are on the sports field
some at ball games
others sitting in groups
talking
some alone
wandering
then he comes
running up
sorry bit late
had to see Mr H
about the cross-country run
later to day
that's all right
she says
feeling relieved
that he has come
running her eyes
over him
sensing her
heartbeat quicken
where do you
want to go?
he asks
what about there
behind the maths block
no one
can see us there
ok
he says
so they walk back
by the fence
by the maths block wall
and there sit
on a low wall
and she kisses him
and he kisses her too
and he embraces her
feels her waist
her slimness
she holds him close
feeling along his spine
feeling warm
sensing her
body glow
they kiss and tongue
and with eyes closed
all seems alive
and hot
then someone bangs
on a window
of the maths block
a teacher stands there
shaking his head
and gesturing
them away
with his hand
so disappointedly
they walk along
by the fence
and out of his sight
and onto the sports field
hand in hand
she keeping
the memory
to hold
and re-dream
that night.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
Clutch tightly those fading rays of summer,
For if loosened they shall slip and they’ll fly.
The sweet taste of Suns and their rises savor.
But please, my dear, save for me the night.
With impermanence ripe and a resplendent soul,
And stars burning like lovers’ eyes lost in lust.
For me it provides what its sister cannot;
That which thrives in my eyes and spreads like dust.
I feel the moon like I feel a dancing woman’s body,
Hips pushing and pulling, breathing and twisting.
Caught in a perfect storm of color and motion and sound,
Her heart placed where I’ve found a hole in mine missing.
You be the moon, my love, and pull my soul toward you.
On a surface flawed only can I taste the void of space.
The flaws are perfection, and your perfection is divine.
From your face I can find no better, more perfect place.
Swaying like the tides she commands, she beckons.
With her curled glowing finger gesturing, I caress the halo.
Breath thinning in the reaches of space, I’m glad for the distance
From my earth’s gyrating masses with pores like sweating volcanoes.
Save for me the night, in its delicious entirety.
Only under her watchful eye can my heart escape and dance,
And paint and sing and act like its bleeding ancestors before.
I want you, my love, to give the night another chance.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
From Dover
to Zeebrugge
across on the ferry
Moira said nothing
kept herself
to herself
except moaning
at her brother
until you reached
the base camp
outside the port
and in the bar
after seeing
the caravans
instead of tents
she said
did you see the state
of those caravans?
talk about dosshouses
you studied her
as she spoke
her lips moving
ten to the dozen
her eyes blazing
like a lit up
Swan Vesta
you saw her
short frame shake
with her anger
I’ve told Billy
to have a go
but will he?
no ****
he won’t say boo
to a ghost
if it was tired
to a chair
and on she went
her words spreading
through the bar
like spilt oil
but all the time
her eyes
were on you
her hands gesturing
the thumb
pointing back
towards
the caravans
the barman
a Belgium guy
gazed at her
bemused
wiping glasses
in the background
someone put a coin
in the jukebox
and out played
loud and clear
Heartbreak Hotel
and all you
could think was
I wonder how she kisses
this wild eyed girl?
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 4:26 AM UTC
inspired by“Blame It on Kristofferson” written by Byron Hill and John Wilken,
released 2010
(lyrics below)
<•>
A young teen listens to the
folk/rock during the Sixties,
five few years later,
now all growed up and living, crazy,
on Bleecker Street, the very same,
where these songs were being sung live,
by the artists, songwriters & friends
on the streets’s bars ‘n cafes
And Judy sings a ballad, mysterious,
‘bout a Marianne and all the tea in China,
words written like it was a poem,
and the infection was silent transferred,
still ‘fected, even now, in days sooner to
be reporting to heaven’s door, this blessed
curse will be unrelenting coming along,
we blame it on
Leonard Cohen
Knew the words, learned the secret chords,
which was easy, a-direct line between us,
knew where he got them holy tunes, and the
words he stole stealthy from our prayerbook,
went to Montreal, visited his home,
it was no accident, just the hand of god,
but don't blame the divine mystery being,
nah~nope, half~century, later, this dope
still blames it on,
yeah that’s right, on
Leonard Cohen
And here we are, the two of us, probably
smiling, gesticulating and gesturing, who
in fact is truly responsible for our crazy gene,
that pursues us, to create,
to mate words with
music of the deep soul, and here me be,
I am,
grateful grasping for each latter day to birth a new creation,
going out smiley & feeling kindly and fulfilled, now more than ever, and
zero doubts that the person at fault, fully blaming it all on my Canadian soul brother,
Leonard Cohen
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 9:36 AM UTC
Your soft gentle grip on my spine
You rise, from the base
Seducing your way up, tingling
Into the neck and move into the depths of my mind
You gently stir, waves upon a beach
Thorns to the stem of the rose
Pedals falling all around you
You call to me, gesturing, you tell me to come to you
Softly, slowly I let myself go
Opening my soul to experience you
To my knees I fall
Perfect sacrifice, for again you have taken me.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
A body in full glory stands before him.
Perpendicular in patent black shiny shoes, skirt hugging her truest form!
Her eyes wide and sultry stare deep into his persona.
Finding, vibrant body heat!
A tigress on a hungry prowl.
She strokes her lips meaningfully with her sandpaper tongue!
She has patterns of her own.
Talons painted scarlet, remnants of her last victim!
She wants to seize and devour him.....
To chew on his his bone is her lust!
She desperately needs to eat....
Her tongue starts to trickle in jest....
Daring him to play!
She entraps him in his world of fantasy,
He is tempted....so tempted,
He needs to be fed, has desires of his own......
No fight in him.
He succumbs to her needs!
She expresses her desires.
Gesturing him to drop before her majestic form.
Holds his head in her hands, stroking his hair gently.
Sudden dire urges on.
The gentleness has left,
His hair was yanked.
She pushes him hard onto the bed.
Craving feed more as they grapple.
He turned, trousers full of promise succumbing to her, at last!
Copyrright, Lady Livvi 06/03/2013.
He turned, trousers full of promise succumbing to her, at last!
Copywrite, Lady Livvi 06/03/2013.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Path of invisibility
Wretches a far out cry
To torturing means
A journey
Tolerated by little insanity
Secret scrolls unquestionable
To an endless developement
Coating many layers of implementation
Sustain by giants
To diminutive people to exodus
Their captivity
Gesturing
In the fibers of humanity
Oct 1, 2009
Oct 1, 2009 at 1:09 PM UTC
And Jane held the butterfly
in the palms of her hands
gently opening up
a mere gap
so that you could glimpse it
it tickles
she said
and she laughed
and that aspect of her
thrilled you
the way she held
her head to one side
her eyes in wonderment
of the captured butterfly
her soft hands
as if she were caressing
the head of a first born
see?
she said
see its beautiful colouring
and you glimpsed
the bright colours
it's a Peacock butterfly
she said
and she stood there
on the narrow road
to Diddling Church
in the grey dress
with yellow flowers
and the muddy shoes
and white socks
her hands opening
and you both watched
as the butterfly
fluttered off
across the hedgerow
out of sight
one of God's treasures
my father calls them
she said
still gazing where
the butterfly had been
a butterfly was a butterfly
to you
fresh from London
unused to the country fare
the clean air
the wide expanse of space
did you see many
butterflies in London?
she asked
guess so
you said
can't say I paid them
much mind
you are funny
she said
all this beauty
and it doesn't strike you?
you stared at her
standing there
her eyes wide open
her hands gesturing
as if to include
all about her
her dark hair
neatly brushed
her dark eyes
focusing on you
getting to me
each time I'm with you
and you explain things
you said
she smiled
and o that
really held you
in a sway that smile
that spread of lips
come on
she said
let's go look
at the gravestones
in the church yard
and so you followed her
up the narrow road
feeling the warm sun
of the Saturday afternoon
wanting to hold her hand
feel her fingers
in yours
sense the smoothness
feel her pulse of life
and you entered
through the wooden gate
along the stones
which made a path
the tombstones
high and low
chiselled names and dates
she stood by the church wall
and stared at the
beyond the hedge
you stood next to her
and touched her hand
with yours
your fingers touching
warm
soft
and she looked at you
and said
you can kiss me
if you like
and stood there waiting
and you unsure
wanting to but shy
not wanting
to mess things
or get it wrong
but you kissed her cheek
and then her lips
holding her
feeling her arms
about you
and you sensed
her waist slim
your fingers touching
and lips to lips
o God
you mused
confused
moved apart
she smiling
you uncertain
and she said
my mother likes you
says you're different
from the local boys
something that sets
you apart
you frowned
and said
am I?
kiss good
she said
not greedy
or too passionate
or too sensuous
but like holding
that butterfly just now
something tickled
inside me
she said
you gazed
into her dark eyes
as a Peacock
butterfly
fluttered overhead.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
Monica watches
as Benedict and Jim
practise judo on the grass
off the path
to the farmhouse.
She cheers Benedict on
standing on the edge
clapping her hands excitedly.
Her other brother Pete
leans against the fence bored,
hands ******
in his jean’s pockets.
How long are you going to be
practising this judo ****
the film starts
in half an hour,
he says.
Benedict throws Jim
to the floor
in a quick movement,
Monica raises her hands
to the air.
Knew you could do it,
knew you could,
she says, patting
Benedict on the back
of his jacket.
Jim dusts off
his jeans
with his hands,
looks at Pete,
then at Monica.
Caught me off guard,
he says,
she put me off
with her yelling
and clapping.
Can we go now?
Pete says,
moving off the fence,
now you’ve done
your judo stuff?
Can I come?
Monica asks
looking at Benedict.
No way,
Jim says,
don’t want no girl
dragging us down.
I am not any girl,
I’m your sister,
she says, staring
at Benedict.
He looks at Jim
then at Monica.
I don’t mind if she comes,
he says.
I do,
Pete says.
Monica pouts
and folds her arms
over her small *******
The farmhouse door opens
and their mother comes out.
I thought you
were going to the cinema?
she says.
We are,
Jim says,
just going.
They won’t take me,
Monica says.
Of course they don’t
want you with them,
her mother says.
Anyway I have some chores
I need help with.
Monica pulls a face
and glares
at her brothers,
but looks at Benedict
pleadingly.
Maybe next time,
he says.
Not with us she don’t,
Pete says.
With me though, maybe,
Benedict says,
giving her a wink.
Come on in Monica,
leave the boys be,
the mother says.
Monica follows her mother
towards the farmhouse,
gesturing her middle digit
at her brothers
while her mother’s back
is turned.
Benedict smiles,
watches as she sways
her small hips,
blows him a kiss
from her open palm.
Jim shakes his head
and follows Pete
to the bikes
by the shed,
while Benedict,
takes a kiss
from his lips
and throws it
at Monica’s
departing back.
Her head turns
and her hands open
to catch the thrown kiss
moving slightly forward
so as not to miss.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC