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May 20, 2020

A Ravishing Poem about the Sweet Taste of Anticipation & the Power of Knowing Ourselves.

 

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Which word is the most dangerous:

never or maybe?

Both are a doorway—

one open, one slammed shut.

A foot in the threshold,

imperceptible space

suspended between the inhale and the exhale,

or the returning

from memory to moment. 

She remembers,

boys in bars and

birds flying away—

beauty manifested by their absence.

A bridge to cross over. 

She stands barefoot between the field and the forest,

toes crisscrossing the vines, exploring the extremities,

thriving as she does,

along the disturbed edges.

The ferns fill in, and their fickle fingers extend,

evoking an intoxicating invitation.

The monstera bow,

the orchids bloom,

the ripe fruits hang low.

And she knows,

like so many women before her,

“This isn’t my first time in the garden.”

One step forward. 

Wayward light warms her spine,

the sweet taste already on her lips

held, however, in anticipation—

a doorway that is half-open.

It’s the most underrated of emotions. 

For every Eve,

with persistently restless fingers

whose story is yet unwritten,

it’s the reach,

the snap,

the tastes on her tongue—

not nourishment or satisfaction, but hunger. 

And when the door to language closes, 

it is her mouth that remains open

because no God,

or man,

or fruit,

is as powerful as knowing yourself.

 

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