Wednesday, January 02, 2008

not here (upstairs)

i don't find my mother here
where slick movements mesh
behind overdone underwear
sliding bra straps over nipples
nuptial motions sucking lobes
holes opening as old as productive urges
twisted pant legs chucked on the wool weave floor
drapes parted halfway
the shades cutting our bodies into slices
us fighting the limits of skin and skein
coiled like snakes under the striped duvet
arms that pull and hips that push
forgotten hinges and gaps
synapses snapping up motoneuron spaces
between coming home and the school bus horn
in the quick flesh hot breaths
of the locked suburban upstairs

released from the dog chain restraint
we lose memory for a moment
and regain the young days before distance and drudgery
our forgotten faces pressed down like reflections
once again open to be drowned.