Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Poem Series: Wildflowers and Splinters

Wildflowers and Splinters

Liz Fink-Davenport

Some things are too hard to write about. Some things stay trapped behind a heavy tongue and the dark of your eyes. Too heartbreakingly glass to risk outside the body soft. Some things are 2am thieves.

Tell me. When it's too hard. You can tell me. I want your words. Like moths gathered and pulled close by a glow in my ribs. I don't want to keep quiet. I want to cry to the cracks in the mountains. I want to whisper to the creek bed rocks. I want my words on the air that carries the leaves and geese.

Your lips will be the last I kiss. Your breath will be the last I share mouth to mouth. Your hands tangled in my hair and your fingers under my chin tilting my face towards yours...will be the last fingers. Last hand.

The boy who climbs fences to pick wild flowers will be the last boy. But it's too hard to say. Not my words. Yours. Coaxed out like a splinter. Flowers left on my pillow. Fingers tracing my jaw as they leave. 2am stealing my last kiss. My Wildflower Boy. Outside the body. Too soft.

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