Fever Dreams

I dreamt last night we did the thing we said we never would. Even between the bowed pansies, I was sweating, trickles soaking the sequins of my thigh-highs, the

river between my thighs banked with the salt-silt of long-dried rivers. Sticky tape locked the wooden doors against me until I split atoms with the edges of my nails.

I wanted you that bad. At the end of the dark passage, a sapphire-eyed woman with a bowl of plastic pens clicked her heels impatiently, waved her white flag.

I’d never seen you wear a ring before. This one shined crystal, orbited your finger with the lopsided space of a lost moon. Gravitational pull should have brought me

to you. I took a wrong turn down the aisle, found my dead grandmother pulling the wings off butterflies. Somehow they could still fly. My veil was next. I could

already hear it yelling. I stuffed its white layers in my mouth, licked the seams from the corners of my lipstick. Somehow I still said the things that one does.



Image taken with iPhone.
Words written in the big leather chair.
Time Taken 5 minutes.
Brain on movies, popcorn, work, writing.

This entry was published on March 11, 2012 at 7:00 pm and is filed under Colin James, March, Poems, Seattle. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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