Return to
Table of

a poem by Aleathia Drehmer

Oskar Kokoschka: Bride of the Wind, 1914

He can never properly hold me
with his knotted, translucent fingers
clutching the cragged tits on the cliff
and telling forked-tongue lies to the moon.

His face reads older than his soul
and next to him I am but the naïve
dew clinging from the green blades
in the valley that he just couldn't shake.

Our limbs tangle incessantly in the night--
beings fleshed from two worlds
bridging at any point possible
with ribs sparking the threat of love
in the volatile wakes of our bodies.

He feeds me the storm from a silver spoon,
feeds the tornado between us growing
inconsolable, threatening disintegration
from more than sharp winds.

© by Aleathia Drehmer
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #16 ~ July 2011