Hippasus of Metapontum

featured in the poetry forum November 5, 2018  :: 0 comments

Your one over my one,
Sweat heaving in crevices,
In dark bedrooms,
Separated by a thin line,
Makes a whole.
My lover needs me to put
Two and two together,
To tell him it will come out right,
That four is too many,
Or even three.
That one is just enough.
I press soft blankets between my thighs,
I watch him pulling out and away,
Slipping back into the shadows of his clothes.
My Pythagoras, you love this too much,
These equations of flesh and heat,
This me times you,
Keeping me safe in this denominator.
You say fraction upon fraction upon fraction
Can never be zero, but I tell you
The division is already lost.
My name has been forgotten.
The truth is not relative.
You stand laughing in your big boat
While I flail frantically in this sea.

editors note: Seek a valuable one, add up to a lifeboat for two. (We welcome Rachel to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Only One

featured in the poetry forum July 10, 2018  :: 0 comments

There is only one tree in my forest.
There is only one sail in my sea.
There is only one fork in my salad.
There is only one song I can sing.
There is only one swing on my playground.
There is only one step to my stair.
There is only one room in my castle.
There is only one braid in my hair.
There is only one tooth in my smile.
There is only one space in my fear.
There is only one step in between us.
There is only one leg on my chair.
There is only one breath I am holding.
There is only one rock in my wall.
How can we divide this between us,
or how can we share it all?

editors note:

A chance for two to make one enough. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum May 5, 2018  :: 0 comments

You are not my lover, yet
you trace my body with your pencil tip,
like making paper dolls, and promises:
the parody of kiss
without the kiss.

This must be what seduction is:
the heat that builds and builds,
the body’s angry fist.
Your words, like scissors, snip
and snip, along the lines we’ve drawn,
their eager sillhouette.

You are not my lover, yet
I stroke your stories with my finger tips,
like making pottery and statuettes:
the parody of flesh
without the flesh.

This must be what seduction is:
The cup that fills and fills,
the spill that’s always wet.
This need, like hot air, spins
and spins and spins. You
are not my lover, yet.

editors note:

Hard to step back and take a breath, when breath has already been taken (away). Got to admire such restraint! – mh clay