To Michael

Something died in there.

Hiding under floor planks and making love
among wood lice, we were more than willing to
grapple for the immediate dissatisfaction,
to touch just to tear away.
Mulling over our pounding hearts,
we assigned them the color crimson to live by,
to struggle, still, to be alive.
We wondered moreover why they pounded when
all our hopes had shattered down and you
were nothing left to fight for,
and we were never anything at all.

We run cold, trapped in each other's arms.
Because we were bidden to converge
in flares and cherry bombs,
to form a firestorm in a deadpan timber,
where many men stood stock still, encased within
two walls, between two lips, and
slipped underneath your fingernails -
ashes, ashes. Pockets full of roses .
Underneath my skin, my maggots ooze and
fill the spaces admist our numbed limbs.

I knew my heart would never
beat for you.

Hey, I think your moth is melting.

(love the poem)

One thing weird about this poem (and your other one) is how the beginning is so jerky. One reason why I like your poetry is because it leads into the subject slowly and tantalizingly; think a strip tease. But with this poem, you're ripping off your bra and then trying to tantalize by pulling off your socks.

Long story short? It doesn't work.

Try getting rid of the opening lines. Then it'll be a lot nicer.

Hm, a jerky beginning, though I don't think you should get rid of the first line(s), just revise and tweak them a little.

I suggest somesort of rewrite like this-

While hiding under floor planks and making love
among wood lice, we were more than willing to
grapple for the immediate dissatisfaction,

[then putting the Something has died later, after the now second paragraph]

were nothing left to fight for,
and we were never anything at all.

(Something has died.)

We run cold, trapped in each other's arms.


Hope this helps, hon.

I love the lines - the color crimson, deadpan tinder, and everything after pocket full of roses.



Yours,
CL