a poem by Michelle M. Mead (1 of 3)

Up 13th Avenue

ah, but then, even street lamps seemed different
the day after I opened full to you,
hanging low as they were, from their tall metal frames,
urban skeletons blinking and dropping
remainders of the other me once known,
down onto fast food trash that blew around
from street corner to street corner in circles,
picking up dirt and the odd bits of string

"Random," it said on a scrap of newspaper with
legs of its own that walked over me,
footsteps heavy on the curve of my breast
to remind me of where this began,
but then a wind came and I believed too
much in the twisted blessings of pain
leaving purity in the garbage can I passed on the way

Between 13th and Main, I threw "Random" away
over my shoulder, embracing instead the abandon of
Submission, wide-eyed and willing like a virgin on prom night,
it counted my pulse by my steps up the street, wearing
boots of black leather and outfit to match,
so I looked for your body pale on the blinds, when
night fell on the avenue and closed-up shops,
and I climbed up the stairs and went down on you,
forgetting the passion of eloquent sins,
the imprint of my lips on the heat of your thighs,
the reflection of my thighs in the dark of your eyes

© by Michelle M. Mead
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #6 ~ November 2009    next poem