Like a vast scream harbored in the back of your throat
we’ve been shown the impossibility of quieting certain things.
The mewling of what’s been stolen from us leaves its agitation
disavowed, hovering in the molten precursor of morning.
The slickened floors of blood and afterbirth lionize our loss
despite the sly concealment of an inbred, terrible moon.
Hammers of truth create personalized mosaic fragments swirling
beyond my most sincere help in a kite-filled anarchy of sky.
And even if I could convince you that none of this has occurred
we’d still be left with only cockroaches and hybrid fractions of flesh.
Like plastic clogging oceans
there’s too much synthetic love
swallowed as something
it could never be
strangling the devotion
the deepest blue of space
and lesser blue of seas
the silence you hear is my fault
You’re hardly unaware
of pheromone chemtrails descending from your brain
where I can see the glisten
of vibration gliding on your face
an acceleration of tension
looking for ignition and consequential fulfillment.
I’ve never seen something as delirious
as your wild village of scrawled speech
provoking flesh-intense insanity
in an armada of mechanical globes,
a momentum of compression and discord
in every direction your quaking legs quiver.
I haven’t slept flat for years, imagining
your generosity of caresses and shifting sensations;
my body is a book of enchantment
on which you write in haphazard scribbles
sweating secreted love signals, a calligraphy
of fructose slopes and glucose shimmers.
I’m slowly losing my swagger
and the ability to carry you up the stairs in my arms
but even if I make it half way up
we can slump down together and rest
looking at pictures of long-dead relatives
hanging by nails on our harvest-yellow walls.
The southernmost day decides to begin
regnant as the uncloaked birds of morning
and you’re a pleasant ache in my muscles,
the sting in the stretch of my skin
a sequence of surrendered secrets
passing beyond a country of tongues and mouths of trust.
The black stride of night enters our permeation
clutching at the strength in my shoulders
as the overlong bones in your thighs
become irresistible butterflies in flight
complementing generous stiches and carboniferous knives
placed deep in beds of winter wheat and husks of rye.
Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than fifteen hundred publications.