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a poem by April Michelle Bratten
Neighbors
She used to wave at me from her balcony,
her breasts swinging and flinging
at each other like wild boar.
She was a massive woman with the steady
arch of whale back
and an ass as big as the earth.
I would listen to her stomp,
her legs bold as they blazed
through the apartment above mine.
When my electricity popped and went black,
she invited me up for a beer,
and that was when I first noticed
how birds found a home in her,
diving beneath and making sweaty
her corrupt breasts.
I found out the loud clangings
that rained down on my ceiling
in the middle of the night
were simply a congregation of her sins
as they dropped,
great swords to her floor.
She is gone now,
replaced by others much smaller,
but I still think of her random fucks that would wake
me from sleep,
her bed creaking above mine,
my insides jumping with sticky tacky.
I used to heave my books at my ceiling,
her bedroom floor,
and watch as the sounds of her fucking
mixed with the falling of Musgrave, Plath, or Cummings.
She and they,
only words pushing,
entwining,
to kick me firmly,
solidly in a lonely gut.
her breasts swinging and flinging
at each other like wild boar.
arch of whale back
and an ass as big as the earth.
her legs bold as they blazed
through the apartment above mine.
she invited me up for a beer,
and that was when I first noticed
how birds found a home in her,
diving beneath and making sweaty
her corrupt breasts.
that rained down on my ceiling
in the middle of the night
were simply a congregation of her sins
as they dropped,
great swords to her floor.
replaced by others much smaller,
me from sleep,
her bed creaking above mine,
my insides jumping with sticky tacky.
her bedroom floor,
and watch as the sounds of her fucking
mixed with the falling of Musgrave, Plath, or Cummings.
only words pushing,
entwining,
to kick me firmly,
solidly in a lonely gut.
© by April Michelle Bratten
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #9 ~ May 2010
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