First the eyes
then the hands
followed by
the body whole,
a wafer and two
tongues dissolving,
undulating in
a motion of waves.
The heart, moved,
dislodged, like
a boulder that blocks
the clematis and
the acoustic tremble
of sigh and song.
Is it not repulsive
at times? Being
this close to you?
My mind cannot
decode the steam
that swirls in scripts
from our vulnerable
spring. At times I
am distracted by
a face that appears
across a wide
field. This face,
not for touching,
but for gazing at,
with lips like crescent
waves protruding,
a mole dotting
the Cupid’s bow.
A face which
somehow stirs by
remaining perfectly
still, with hay hair,
that, by wind,
engages like flecks
of gold in sunlight.
Two separate musics,
one for each ear:
a visage or the
eight-legged species
we create. I saw you
turning the sides of
a coin over and over
in your fingers –
I heard you say love.
Katherine MacCue is a graduate of the George Washington University. Her poetry has been published in RiverLit, Stone Highway Review, and she has forthcoming work in The Writing Disorder. She can be found at http://kvmacc.blogspot.com.
