#norapoetry

[norapoetry]

Rosebush

If we could, for a moment,

forget all the sounds and colors,

all thoughts and desires

and experience then the touch of fingers.

softness would begin the senses.

Remember what it felt like,

true love’s first kiss, or handhold?

Much like hugging a rosebush,

with beautiful smells but don’t move too quick,

it’ll rip you up.

If we could, for a moment,

talk about the time it happened,

when she pressed your hand to the griddle

and it came off burned and red.

Suppose the softness is an idea,

and one that can’t be grasped or contained,

intermixed with pain, contingent on it in fact.

Suppose that’s just the way it is,

for some reason.

[norapoetry]

Ballet Dancer

I’ve always thought of Ballet (you)

As a foreign language I am unable

to read or write or speak.

I see it, I hear it even, (it like nothing else)

but don’t know the words (and never will)

they could be saying anything to me

could be saying beautiful things, or lying,

which even that can be beautiful too.

Let’s think about the time

we took our bodies to the river

and set them on little wooden rafts

then watched them float away,

how beautiful they looked.

I almost forgot about when (despite my best efforts)

you told me corpses were the prettiest

whenever they were floating downstream.

Resting there holding your hand

I knew you were right. (you always were)

Sorry that I ever doubted you.

[norapoetry]

untitled

They placed the rope around her neck and just before placing the sack over her head

asked her if she had any last words and she said...

“Yes, please recycle this bag.”

That’s what you get for not being a man.