Hiding in the Senses: Prose Poem
Saturday Poetry Prompt: soothing fires
Lips on fire like you just drank a Rusty Nail, you weren’t just holding the bowl glass for the look of it — fingers lace and unlace, trapped in small movements, bones emerging from nerves that sink back under the next breath —
salvation is a funny word — I say salve is a better one — the crumbling of the skin cover, rippled by wind, brought into the touch and spikes of winter wind blowing the drive in every other day —finding my hips and back at their upper limits — pinches and stabs, a crab with iron claws and feet sinks with razor sharpness to the spine’s level —
but we all retreat to those stories and sacrifices, the firings and weavings as the consciousness sinks to the body, brings the wooden floor press of carpet —then the interpretation, bringing the senses in as soothing, animal, the expansiveness of the skin, making roads through the day for textures —
smoothing out later, spread on the bed various covers and welcomes for those outside whispers to change the temperature below the ankles — those private volcanoes, torturing a Pompeii at the bottom edge of me, relentless and never letting those fires turn to ash — no transformation for the inflamed adversary — but it’s still mine —
