Davon Loeb is back with us again, offering three deeply introspective poems. He has quite a knack for touching the heart of woman.
~ ~ ~
Love was a fallen stone her eyes tried to catch.
She’d blink, and the clouds would move,
and every morning her eyelashes would
touch the sky.
Licentious stories about
Kings and Queens swung her imagination,
wide-eyed, with a smile sewn into each passing
page. The beggars and jesters came calling
like birds’ songs from the trees.
And every night, she held her pillow between
her bone-colored knees, laughter echoing
throughout her hollows, in iambics, love would
sing. And caress her ears like feathers do.
Her eyes ran into the ocean
with her father’s favorite Shakespeare book.
In the cake of her leather boots
flowers wilted, with sand and shiny green
blades. And love was a painted actor
emerging from Holy Trinity’s churchyard leaves.
She lies on the kitchen floor,
a silhouette outlined by a fleeting sun.
A bottle of undulant syrup
slants and lashes at her words,
leaving them whispered underwater.
Buzzed by the bees bumbling at the bottoms of her
feet–socks her mother wore,
before mom became teeth in the grass,
a fragile skeleton in stridency.
And like the weed that’s watered,
she grows and she drinks with
dirt dug under her nails.
She enjoys the bandages after the blades,
and the knots of hair knitting between her
knuckles, like lattice–
and she emits bravery like babies’ breath.
Pranks the lucid eye–
walks with thorns and arches backs
by bending knees like prays.
Rifles ravenous blows–
leaving pelts unctuous
and blood un-clotted
and smiles stark with quarrel.
A rendezvousing wound
plugged with pumice
and the scent of pomegranate.
Shrouded in a garland of flowers,
waits for no cue, proceeds
predatorily in desire for malice.