"Fashion wings from paper plates, dear."
The rosehip teardrops you dabbed behind your ears have made me yearn to fly. I'm on the sill four-stories high. The Chesapeake spreads wings of dark water. (Feathered-by-waves darkness -- it's the dank hull cabin to abscond to.) Snag me in your beak, you bastard bird.
My penis is engorged -- a rod to roost on. It returns each waving gesture -- as if all of Baltimore says hello.
The center of me glows in the glass, a puzzle piece with a convex nub. A puzzle? I’m a Jonah in wait of the whale’s jowls. Rather, I’m the city to be destroyed. My temple is the space between your legs. You stamped your nakedness in my emptiness. Your plate pressed deep into my clay has left its impression.
My lips shape your words. My thighs have paled to your porcelain glow.
We checked each hotel door until we found one unlocked. We opened it and each other. Offered our sweat to the shattered sheets. Shared our scent with that of an unknown traveler. And now I’m ready to fly. To travel by the sweep of my wings.
I want to soar, without judging whether my wings can catch air. To sail your skin, even if that waterway extends only in memory.
The suitcase by the bureau talks of the times I've fled responsibility. The unknown traveler has clutched the handle many times -- the leather is worn. I sniff my skin for his smell. I find neither his nor yours, only the stench of my own, much darker, much stronger than rosehip.
© 2009 :Hephaestes
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