Book of days

When you hold me, I am so very
present in the holding. I count hairs
ticking away time on your back. I feel
each fold of the blanket like days

fluttering around me. Let them flutter
and fly. I am anchored: you inside
me, the pivot around which the world
spins. The center holds. I can breathe,

stuck still in some other poet’s gyre.
Who cares about the end of days
when so many pass in flickers
of sun and moon at the corners

of our eyes? It is the taste of skin
and hair and tongue and semen
and blood we chase, axial point,
antipodes, some crummy missed

childhood and no pockets left for dreams.
We’re naked skinflints. Our hair grays.
These moments drip to the mattress,
collect in sticky pools for our licking.

Dip the goblet; lift it up. Gobble it down.
Eat me! Suck me dry and devour the fleshy
meat that’s left. I have enough. I have you.

Brandy McKenzie has published poems in more than three dozen literary magazines, and worked on the editorial boards of three different nationally distributed literary magazines. These days, she mostly works as a paralegal, teaches critical thinking and writing to community college students, and tries to provoke conversation about the alternate history she’s sure we’re entering like some sort of waking dream.

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One Response to Book of days

  1. Excellent imagery and sensory detail.

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