it is about
why we bleed, why we outright lie
throwing stones
across our watered down tongues - it's the sexual acting out, the
need to have our sex
half clothed (knee highs; skirts waisted)
it is about the fear of
maternal echos - "make sure you wash, between your legs,
hear me?"
did we, did we - do-
not now (remember) - did we not....
it is summer's swelling heat
cam-
ouflaged as love's stain, it is sweaty palms on
faded, coarse -- cotton, about
a screaming fly
against a rusty screen, the
sheer
beauty of it, the apprehension
that takes us there, the cultivating
of
primal
without regard for three naked
ladies bloomed partial
beneath the window
where the fly
sits
now without sound
or concern
bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2013
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