Pico de Orizaba

Pico de Orizaba
Taken from Huatusco, Veracruz, the closest town to Margarita's family's ranch.

Friday, July 15, 2011

The Whirling (Anya) Poem, Spring 2000

A yawn. 
Overflow from eyes, wet. 
Another yawn. 
Pinch eyes with thumb and forefinger, 
pull tips across lashes and lids to bridge of nose. 

Better yet
"Don't Think!"
Look at computer screen. 
No work. None for hours. Seemingly days. 
Pick up book. 
Read a paragraph. 
Sylvia Plath on dentist's chair... 
Or the man raping her mouth with his tongue in the barn. 
Placing himself between Sylvia and the door. 
Grabbing her arms. 
Forcing his mouth against hers. 
Sliding his tongue between her lips bruising. 
And offering her a glass of water 
Sending Sylvia crying into the fields, "
longing", "electrified", afraid.
Yes, longing so potent so uncontrollable... 
Matched by fear brings tears in the shower, on subway trains. 
Desire so strong I feel it pressing against my back, 
spreading into my loins, 
softening my lips, 
moistening my mouth, 
making me all pouty faced, 
causing stiffness where and whence no stiffness belongs. 
"I didn't invite you! I didn't give you the secret password! I didn't give you permission to enter! Go! Leave me alone!"
Attempting sitting erect on the F train. 
Slumping. hugging backpack against chest. 
Burying face in arms. 
Closing eyes. 
Pretending that I am not truly there. 
Yet still feeling the throbbing in my chest, 
the whirling in my stomach.
She says, 
"but it's so FUN. Enjoy yourself"
Who was SHE?  I ask 12 years later
James says, "
Turn with it MAN! It's a greased pole." 
And I imagine myself table dancing in the middle of the subway car, 
strangers eyes bulging looking at this crazy man dancing sensually to his internal music, 
strangers not looking at anyone, nor at themselves

Round and Round I go. Where I stop, nobody knows.

"Feel the wind in your hair. SOAR!"
And there I am... From train to work. 
Book in hand, 
walking with Sylvia in the fields 
electrified, afraid; 
wishing I was anywhere but THERE, 
perpetually sitting, 
staring at a computer screen. 
Feeling... Feeling. 
My lips pressed against hers. 
As it could have been, 
as it wasn't. 
The image appears repeatedly. It's so real. 
SO real I can taste it. 
I feel her lips against mine, soft. 
I taste her mouth. 
I sense her tongue smooth and firm. 
I feel  a strange hunger in my belly. 
I feel a movement from my stomach to my back. 
It passes over my ribs, 
beneath my shoulder blades, 
up my spine. 
The whirling has become a warm flow. 
I feel it in my throat. 
Flowing through arteries in my neck 
like morphine; a cool stream. 
It's the breath that fills my lungs like an ocean breeze. 
My face is hot. 
My earlobes red, 
my cheeks blushed. 
I feel a tingling in my scalp as my lids lower and my eyes glaze over...
I sigh...
Sitting here and waiting.
Awaiting work that doesn't come,
Awaiting changes of mood.
Awaiting movement.
Over streets, through neighborhoods, through towns, through woods, across fields. 
Into the sea.
Alone with my self.
Awaiting the passing of THIS.
Awaiting THAT day when I don't think about her lips,
Red Hot Tamale red.
Sweet and hot and soft and wet.
How I wish this was just another journal entry.
Just a fantasy,
if her lips were not meant to kiss.

Needing a good distraction. 

She was the lake
Cedar Lake
I swore I would sit upon her shores and watch her from my distance.
I would remain dressed and dry.
I would remain calm, composed, in control.
Instead, I'm sinking below her surface.
I'm screaming,
The glass shatters and the shards fall slowly like one thousand crystal tears. 
I close my eyes and hold myself and find peace. 
But the respit is but a momentary illusion. 
For I am still at work. 
And she is still that potent fantasy and fear.

I walk with Sylvia in fields of Massachusetts and wonder why it couldn't be just a tad bit easier.

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