"teats" poems
Gemini in seasonable evening,
serenely swirling in Septemberous
ferris wheels
reeling in the vast domain
of lonesome leviathans
and witch-fires;
nowhere bound in the boundless fecundity
[ the feral joys of creation... ]
twins
meander in gravity's
well of souls,
swollen with unknowns and proteins;
golden rods in pointless foam
brewing the elixir vitae
in the Dippers cup. the Milky Way,
a wayward gush
from an ancient Mother Goddess,
plump and shameless, pumping teats
to nurse worlds
infused with divine rays of gamma and x...
why set dark apart
from firmament burning
spheres?
dragons
must clutch eggs in the void
as much
as fork tongue white dwarfs.
of course, the Source
unfolds
as Love does. it's purpose,
in thrall of fearless veracity,
spinning yarns for glad garments
to clothe the naked dread
of such fearful symmetries
as roam the wild delights
of the infinite
meringue.
the Pi
on the window sill,
tempting the circular frame of reference
to square with the sublime Will.
another Fibonacci in your
bedpost,
to better hobnob with
broomsticks.
everything annihilates hatred.
from within,
we sojourn to sovereign super-continents
of opulent peace.
profound realities surge serpentine
with Meaning.
we are outdone on the inside by small minds
and farcical
hearts.
so at night
look up.
Love's Tongue Is
Love's
Word.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.
Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…
Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my teats.
Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child, you must not fear the future –
feed, my baby, feed.
Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free!
Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that ****** situated
where your will can never grab it
Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
this titillation.
Love me. Need me. I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Earth
greatest, grandest Mother
no metaphor here
but ten-thousand teats
feeding
all children
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
KEEP a red heart of memories
Under the great gray rain sheds of the sky,
Under the open sun and the yellow gloaming embers.
Remember all paydays of lilacs and songbirds;
All starlights of cool memories on storm paths.
Out of this prairie rise the faces of dead men.
They speak to me. I can not tell you what they say.
Other faces rise on the prairie.
They are the unborn. The future.
Yesterday and to-morrow cross and mix on the skyline
The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets. One waits.
In the yellow dust of sunsets, in the meadows of vermilion eight o'clock June nights ... the dead men and the unborn children speak to me ... I can not tell you what they say ... you listen and you know.
I don't care who you are, man:
I know a woman is looking for you
and her soul is a corn-tassel kissing a south-west wind.
(The farm-boy whose face is the color of brick-dust, is calling the cows; he will form the letter X with crossed streams of milk from the teats; he will beat a tattoo on the bottom of a tin pail with X's of milk.)
I don't care who you are, man:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are gray dust working toward star paths
And you see them from a garret window when you laugh
At your luck and murmur, "I don't care."
I don't care who you are, woman:
I know a man is looking for you
And his soul is a south-west wind kissing a corn-tassel.
(The kitchen girl on the farm is throwing oats to the chickens and the buff of their feathers says hello to the sunset's late maroon.)
I don't care who you are, woman:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are next year's wheat or the year after hidden in the dark and loam.
My love is a yellow hammer spinning circles in Ohio, Indiana. My love is a redbird shooting flights in straight lines in Kentucky and Tennessee. My love is an early robin flaming an ember of copper on her shoulders in March and April. My love is a graybird living in the eaves of a Michigan house all winter. Why is my love always a crying thing of wings?
On the Indiana dunes, in the Mississippi marshes, I have asked: Is it only a fishbone on the beach?
Is it only a dog's jaw or a horse's skull whitening in the sun? Is the red heart of man only ashes? Is the flame of it all a white light switched off and the power house wires cut?
Why do the prairie roses answer every summer? Why do the changing repeating rains come back out of the salt sea wind-blown? Why do the stars keep their tracks? Why do the cradles of the sky rock new babies?
4.4k
be my second chance at life,
be my sun,
get into my orbit,
crash into my atmosphere,
let me paint your teats on canvas,
let me be the hot water in your bath,
I don't care if the metaphor is broke,
just get the **** over here,
the distance is inhumane.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:45 PM UTC
I bought a cow
Purchased her with but words
She works for me now
Grab her by the teats I need
Her drink to live
I swallow milk, keeps me strong
Despite this relationship
all wrong, that she provides
green needs
It's all I want
I used to have a cat, cute
andro-trans boy alien
He ****** my ****
Swallowed *** and ****** me raw
Walls fall apart
Every new best thing sinks and stinks
Under the barn,
I bought a barn
Under which the missing bodies compost
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
Gunga peas calypso
Madly
in my cooking ***
gradually I pour canned coconut milk
into the swirling flavors
of cilantro, garlic and onions
Staring into the rich brown
stew
I can see my Mother grating
coconut meat and hand squeezing
the milk like teats from a cow
(Too much work for me)
creating a traditional coconut rice and peas
dish
She was raised on a farm in St. Elizabeth,
Jamaica
early hours, rugged, hard labor were natural
for the family which included nine siblings
Pauline was a kind big hearted Soul
with ample soft *****
perfect for children
to lay their heads upon
and skin that always seemed
to smell of curry
Burnt sienna Indian complexion
wavy black river hair
and colorful patois accent
painted a portrait
cavorting over the dandy, rolling
goat hooved hills of
Jamaican village peasantry
The Moravian church of England formed
beliefs woven inextricably through
the fabric of her simplistic
innocent existence
our Mom instilled a love of
God in us that was pure and hearty
"Sonya stop your daydreaming"
my Mother's clarion voice interrupts
my avid reverie
"Bumba!" I cry aloud
"I haven't had bammy in eons"
Quickly my fingers Google
Another tasty native recipe
chock full of memories
and cassava root
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
She lies patiently while her babes drink from her body
She is calm after eating the meal delivered by her mate
He sits in front of her protective of her and his young cubs
She bats almost playfully at a blade of irritating grass that
Has been tickling her ear for what seems like a long time
The pups now sleep their tiny months still on her sore teats
She is calmer now for the run is over but inside something
Stirs maybe her female ancestors showing her new patterns
A new way of understanding almost forgotten by the others
She looks at her babies and softly purrs in her proudness
They **** absently in their sleep twitching in new dreams
She is relaxed serene could almost be sleeping herself
But do not be fooled by this white lionessfor she is strong
And she will fight to the death for her family her clan and
Her pride they are her reason for living her reason for being
She gently licks each of her cubs heads being extra careful
To avoid touching them with her huge sharp teeth thinking
Best to leave me and mine alone it's best not to try to hurt us
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
The time has come to hit the road,and
make some tracks
in shutdown mode.
It's easy to be put upon when you're just one and have no heart to fight,right or wrong it's so long chaps
we've had our laughs and there's no more to come.
I have spun new shoes to fit these feet and now I'm heading off to greet what's in the next face that I meet, I fear the milk of human kindness has run dry,its teats are shy,my lips are parched.
You'll find me underneath the arch that runs beneath the viaduct,fucked or not,shutdown's what I do and one day you might do it too,'til then when Big Ben strikes the hour at nine and I dine alone chilled to the bone and when you find me,be kind because I carry a weighty load which make more tracks in the shutdown mode.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
i became the jumpin' jack flash in november '77.
there was slush in new york city and the bums at the piers
still burned trash in metal barrels you could see from over on coney island even.
just like kerouac said.
in the daytime foolish kids picked weeds in central park
and called them flowers. they got laid by stringing charming words together as they gave them
to the thousand daughters of manhattan's old monied men,
the wall street hacks hanging from the teats of the
great & frenzied cash cow of capitalist interest. the milk
came slow that winter.
one week, early december when the slush gave way to furtive snowfalls
i took a bus to patterson, NJ
for a few days, drank a lot of awful coffee writing obscenities in my journal but speaking
them aloud in the restaurants and bars and so
was deemed just like everybody else in patterson, NJ.
drunk & high, helicopter tours, stuffed with bread and half-truths.
and when shortly my irish luck ran out i raced back to the big smoke
in a drop-top mercedes driven by a man whose thick accent i couldn't quite place.
whose only serious question was whether i knew anyone
who had good coke.
in the city it rained for three weeks straight and
david byrne, in some bowery apartment wrote a song called 'flood'
which was never released on any talking head's album
but lingered in his brain as a reminder of the three weeks
he spent cooped up, eating saltines and dancing to the rhythms of the thunder and rain outside.
totally alone with his mind & a bass guitar. tina weymouth, naturally, was furious.
the bass was the last thing she had left in a band she half-started. and david had stolen even that.
but that was tina weymouth, that was new york.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
there she sat licking her paws
and her teats red and raw,
pondering, perhaps, how four black
and white kittens
happened.
There in a laundry basket
four little kittens mewed,
wondering where, their momma
was, all they knew was
hunger.
Finally settling together
all curled around each other,
all given spent in their mews,
they slept one white
and black furry
cute.
Until momma cat, her name Panda,
finished grooming her tenderness,
returned all awaking their
mewing, again.
And she licked them.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
The internet shows the true decline of decent human beings.
Trolls roam free and unhindered hurting and hateful.
Intelligence is dragged down by ignorance and stupidity.
People band together and hate other people because they can.
Sure the internet exposes those odd glimmers of human hope and kindness.
Flashes in the pan of an otherwise hateful human race.
It's so easy to hurt others from behind a screen.
Cowards venting unknown issues that should be dealt with on a therapists couch.
Mentally unstable people gathering crowds to suckle from their teats of endless ignorance.
Stupidity is common and boundless and encouraged in todays world.
Christ forbid you should have a problem with society.
You will drown in sorrow and frustration surrounded by people who blindly accept and follow.
No minds of their own, just sheep to a slaughter, no voice, no vision no drive to do better.
It's a bane to have a brain in the modern world, where to think for yourself is a crime.
To question the status quo doesn't make you a revolutionary but dissatisfied and selfish.
I do not like what this place has become societies poison is turning humans into monsters.
Monsters who feed on ego and putting others down all in our boxes all labelled all judged.
Darkest wants and fantasies satisfied with the flick of a wrist and the click of a button.
But perhaps we were monsters all along and it just took the right trick for us to embrace it.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
The time numbs. I want it raw like it was.
Like ************ and ******
Something powerful and honest.
I let lies continue.
Fantasies I tease myself with.
I never follow these potential trails.
I’m terrified of not having blissful reverie.
Closure haunts me. I’m scared of definition.
I live in a time that never ends.
I breath the exhaust we know but cannot see.
The world spins upon my shoulders, I pass it on without using my hands.
People die, it’s distant.
Life doesn’t mean much.
I live here in a puddle.
I love all the potential I have to waste.
I don’t know what I would slobber on without it.
I want something raw.
Something abrasive, without some sort of superficial veil.
If I brush back another thin facade just to uncover a clearer image of ********
I’ll slump the world with my bear hands, and whatever blunt object is abreast.
The ensuing postlude or coattail if you will, is gruesome and redefines the word genocide.
Life passes by because it’s not cut with iron anymore. It’s chiseled away with fantastic stone and underlying hopeful chimes of music. A method to which leaves reality unclear, and insipid. Quite literally dull and un-vitriolic.
The time jingoes tore babies from teats, bounced sore bosoms, and buried John Doe’s in mass graves beside schools. Is long gone.
I live in a butterfly massacre.
Nov 6, 2021
Nov 6, 2021 at 2:51 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
I guess it's
Been four years now
She turned up here homeless
She was old
Even then
Those used teats
The grey on her jowl
Lonely. So loving.
She's followed me
Like my shadow
Ever since
And don't believe
A dog can't smile
In my absences
She'll sit by the door
Until I come back
I'm 60 now.
Just had a birthday.
And this black Labrador
Beauty gave me the honor
Of crawling up next
To me as I went to sleep
She rarely has done before.
And it made me wonder
How I want to die before her
I don't think I could stand
Losing her
But thought
Of what would happen
To her
If I went before
And this isn't poetry
It's a love story
About two lonely orphans
Who found someone
Who loves them more
Than life itself
And how
Much love
Can mean
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
All God's children,
resting on both their
knees,
doing whoever
they
please,
thrusting boredom away,
dismantling the moonbeams,
dissolving the winter wind,
with a pitiful howl.
We suckled teats,
we dragged our feet,
now we *****
black comedy,
and pace perpetual in the valley.
All God's children,
lifting their hands to the plasma screen,
drinking their own blood,
and feeling
perfectly
guilty
for it.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 12:21 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
This might be the Real
Transmission Mechanism
The niggerly water
lubricating a Trickle
Down
Greens in Rich hand
gets miserly saved
Yet earned on Poor back
miraculously makes it Rain
Washingtons fall
a few Jacksons scorch
land in lap
Even a Benjamin
swallows Trick Dollar
to **** a positive cash
flow
Bills stick on teats
just enough to buy
a comfort Doritos
bag a Brand name
snack for her little boy
So he'll grow up knowing
What value-added Marketing
taste like.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 10:56 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
Silent tears bewitch my mind
Icy fingers caress my soul
Sickening thoughts consume me
A faint pulse they stole
Evil desires taint my logic
Through my desperate quest
Striving for deluded perfection
A reflection I detest
Golden curls disappear
Tired eyes dominate
Companions nervously enquire
"How much have I ate?"
Obsessions take control
Forgetting about all that I care
Procrastinating with anxiety
What do they think, why do they stare?
Guilty actions and fears dictate
Participating in deeds I regret
All the pain that I caused
Oh how I wish I could forget
So let this be an example
When your bones begin to show
When your hair starts to thin
and your face lacks a youthful glow
It is not worth the pain
It will never be worth the lies
It takes control of your will
Shrinking your withering size
When you see your mother's teats
A gaze of father's sorrow
Just remember one thing
Recovery is as close as tomorrow
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
Mother i remember as
the pritty one with teats
not one of those other knobs
that chow cha chewed
do you mother remember me
i am the one you called
the black sheep
and on a good day Paul
tonight i remember all
you are my dispersible aspirin
and mother i need you now.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
( this work is livicated to the six children who will die
in the so-called "third-world in the time it takes to read it)
Drip, drip, drip says the stand-pipe
in the shanty town
as the young mothers gather round
plastic containers on the ground
listening to the drip, drip, drip
of life ebbing away
the riverbeds have all dried up
the wells are mineshafts to the past
the irrigation channels of their *******
are polluted now by the Cuckoo's Nest
the powdered-milk...the dust-bowl fields
the quotas met......the land reveals
the hand that rocks this cradle
is the one who lays the table
with "third-world" debt their able
to rob and **** and disable
as the dehydrated bodies blow away like ashes
the multi-national faschists........
with vampire banks decashes
the breast-milk of the masses
witha ****** drip, drip, drip
from the ******* of the mothers
the corporations smother....
the babies in their sleep
the cuckoo comes as a thief
with a free sample and a brief
case full of deceipt............
may I make a suggestion?
"ASK SOME QUESTIONS"
As you eat your chocolate
and drink your coffee
and smear ice-cream on your lovers body
and NESTLE down to the land of noddy
to dream of countless trucks and lorries
ferrying the cow-juice and the slurry
burning the forests in such a hurry
more cattle and cash and burn and $lash
leaves a gaping ****
in the dried-up flesh of Mother Earth
and 4000 babies every year
yes 4000 babies every year
return to the DUST....
BOWL..............BREAKFAST BOWL
CEREAL BOWL..........SERIAL KRIME
CORN and MILK spells CORPORATE CRIME
dished up for your childrens belly
in front of telly-tubby tellies
Chocolate bars and candy treats
robbed from the swollen teats
of mutated udders
whilst the cow's baby brothers
are herded into crates
and served on rich mens plates
the mothers stand and wait
and listen to the rate
of the DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
of spilt milk down the drain
the governments explain
and bury their shame
under mountains of grain
and excess champagne
and if you BEG
you get Easter eggs instead
served up by the "head"
whose saviour bled
with a steady DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
and I scream and jelly
and biscuits and cakes
make bovine mistakes
and cheesy diseases
from the milk that turns sour
reminds us every hour
of this KATTLE KULTURE HERESY
of babies dying constantly
with a DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
I found a skeleton of a bus
so far into the pines, I knew it had been
dropped from the sky, to save me
they had to be far behind,
the other side of the stream, where those hounds
lost my scent
Jed and Tonto didn’t follow me across
the shallows, and I’d bet all the money I ever stole
those curs and the posse ate them up
there was almost half a moon, though
inside the bus was black; outside was freezing
drizzle pattering on the roof
the coat I filched was soaked
my trousers too--nobody told me
Alabama got this cold
if they had
I wouldn’t have believed them
until that night
I curled up in a ball
behind the driver’s seat, shoved
my frozen hands in my shirt
then I heard that hiss, and saw
those eyes--I stayed quiet, more quiet even
than when I hid from John law
then she growled, deep, slow
but I kept watching her eyes--emerald and still, still
in the place I first saw them
then we were both silent
I’d *** my drawers before I’d move
freeze outside... get ate inside
the hours passed fast; I drifted,
dreamed a little of being back inside, and woke
when the sun hit the cracked windshield
she was still there
with two cubs nursing, now used to my smell
I suppose, since she didn’t jump
when I slid down the bus stairs
into the frosty grass, where I saw a doe
chewing forbs, close to the roots
lucky the lion had her babes stuck
to her teats, lucky I was between the cat and prey,
lucky the bus was in that grove
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC