a poem by Aleathia Drehmer
Oskar Kokoschka: Bride of the Wind, 1914
with his knotted, translucent fingers
clutching the cragged tits on the cliff
and telling forked-tongue lies to the moon.
and next to him I am but the naïve
dew clinging from the green blades
in the valley that he just couldn't shake.
beings fleshed from two worlds
bridging at any point possible
with ribs sparking the threat of love
in the volatile wakes of our bodies.
feeds the tornado between us growing
inconsolable, threatening disintegration
from more than sharp winds.