We have made habits out of touching too much; letting folds of skin and hair roll underneath palms. We have spent afternoons idle and lazy, making serious tasks out of laying on our backs and staring at the ceiling. When we walk down suburban streets littered with Autumn leaves, our hands nearly touch. We smile often at each other, our gazes heavy with wanting. And when you leave my whole body feels tired, wrung out and desperate to touch you more.
There have been moments with you standing in the kitchen, the summer sun touching your shoulders. I can not help but wish, with such fevour, to kiss the skin it touches there.
My heart a desolate well.
I am unable to fill it with forgiveness
for you.
Watch out! This world is
so Big, it can swallow your
whole being within seconds.
Bring me rays of golden light,
Skin freckled and blooming of red.
Bring me Spring.
I am Virginia
reincarnate. This time, the
water won’t stop me.
My Lovely friend,
It is a cold night in Massachusetts,
full of desperation…
I only wish I could walk through this doorway
and find you
on the other side.
I sometimes think there is a camera behind my eyelids which captures everything I’ve ever experienced. Sometimes I’ll turn all of the lights and lay down in the dark just to remember. A kaleidoscope of images float through my mind and remind me; look at all you’ve seen.
If I could be anything in the sea
I’d be a dancing Chrismas ornament
with tentacles like mermaid hair.
Sometimes I feel like
an iceberg Bleeding up from
below the surface.
J.Morrill
Dearest Jackie,
You are a far better poet, and writer, then I’ll ever be. This does not trouble me, however. You inspire more than you know. And, I miss you.
Always,
Crystle
I want only to be devoured
like snow
fed to the mouths
of children’s fists.
-J. Morrill
Here’s the trick to eating a soul:
you have to melt it down first,
separate gospel prayers from pentagram promises,
boil the mass of ache, stone, and love at 357 degrees Fahrenheit,
set the gas clicking to work, water-down the snow chunks,
take a salty lick and remember
that first kiss
when you forgot how close two faces had to be,
when you forgot how much heat two bodies could generate in winter
then wait—
the recipe calls for you to wait
until green bubbles dissipate, until gall stones of shivering fear surrender,
wait for the syrup to thicken.
I am not a man-eater, I am not a women-eater,
I am not a spider sucking blood from moth wings and grasshopper violins,
I am just trying to please a sophisticated pallete,
a foodie with cannibalistic habits reaching far beyond the flesh of humankind.
Praying mantises bite the heads off their lovers post-coitus,
abominable snowmen watch sunrises and puddle together at the world’s end,
but I am just a hungry girl
hunting for my next meal,
I am just a thirsty woman
learning from Hannibal’s mistakes.
-J. Morrill
Yesturday was a glorious day.
We tracked deer prints on the hill, then
Gathered snow between gloved hands.
We splattered the backs of coats with
Hardened ice.
We shared an orange in the field
And searched for geese among trees.
Yesturday was a glorious day
Even the gray sky seemed
Blue.
Room 116.
My father is ill.
He is an eighty pound skeleton.
Skin whiter than bedsheets,
Hair graying at the tips.
He hasn’t eaten in months.
His lips are wavering caterpillars
Housing yellowed teeth and a fat tongue
That can’t hold back the onslaught of vomit,
And coffee, and swearing.
And his stomach is tiny,
It is too tired to digest.
My mother is a mess.
She goes days without sleep
And lies to nurses about how long it’s been
Since he’s really eaten-
She calculates that pudding packs and mashed potatoes
Count as solid meals,
And says, “It’s only been a week,”
Because seven days is so much lighter
Than seven months.
My mother is a mess.
She brings my daddy two rolled up cigarettes
And pats him on the top of his hands,
Says “You’re just a little sick,
You’ve just got a little cough.”
Daddy untangles from the mass of wires
And unfolds those long, skinny legs of
Bone and bone and bone
And wobbles to the bathroom.
He has his cigarettes there,
in the hospital bathroom
The smoke curling out passed the closed door,
Evidence of his misgivings.
I imagine those cigarettes were sweet
and familiar,
That they fit perfectly between yellowed fingers
That he felt safer in having them,
And so I forgive.
-Crystle LaCroix
blue.
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