Dragging My Toes

One reason I diddle and slowly cavort through my possessions under the disguise of cleaning house is because I am disturbing an unreliable dust- a dust which coats my recollections of the past. What I think I remember occurring shape shifts through the passage of time: truth? I am easily diverted by old class notes, letters, personal journals, and poems. Tonight, for example, I found an artist's proof of a poem I wrote in 2000 when my father was dying. I always liked this particular poem, and when I was reunited with the words after a separation of 10 years, the emotions swirling around my father's illness were all too real.

Emerging

My poetry emerges

with coaxing.

Loose fingers elicit

flaky apple pie cinnamon

and heavy cream

sticking to slurpy tongues

teasing each syllable

with fat and saliva.

Each word an electric impulse

a twitch

that strains my body

during hours of foreplay

back and forth on the page.

Rearranging the parts.

Reconstructing the sensations.

Lulled by the release.

[Words and the rearranging of words into some sort of order were a comfort to me at this time. After my father died, I asked for his guidance as my muse.]