Nothing but the Stem

I painted him with six fingers
for reasons I can’t confess.
(It’s for the way oil chips off of glazed wood,
  sanded between thighs…)

I wish I never closed my eyes
to his– the greenest.

For his was the greediest
but iris’ overrule.

I saw somewhere,
the pastures that were gated
by moleskin notebooks.

Those were bound to never let me in…

But still, I listened.

Still I grazed along
landscapes, nestled in
shadows, collecting berries
to smear around my neck;
a sign of true courage,
of degradation,

Who wants a flushed flower
when no petals are left
for the picking?


About Robyn

"If you haven't known insanity, you haven't lived."
This entry was posted in Other Trivial Pursuits, Recovery (USA) and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s