Saturday, August 31, 2013

Alixandria Moore- Three Poems

Falling In and Out

We were built into a monument,
stones stacked into columns—
a skyscraper of limbs intertwined.
While finding a home on the backs of one another,
we became a collaboration of souls
until we were strangers to ourselves;
our legs still attached. 

Rivers of people rushed at our feet,
flowing into one another and
into us—

but you aren’t made of stone,
only flesh disguised as the immovable.
You handed pieces of yourself to the willing;
auctioning off your marble limbs and cement organs,
even plucking the clump of
pulsing granite from between
the columns
keeping us intertwined
until I was standing alone.

I’ve been looking for you
underneath the cracks of doorways,
in the pockets of strangers,
from rooftops to alley ways
but you have become a currency;
traded for bread and milk,
to those with a craving.

We were built into a monument.
Kissing the sky
above the stream of  people.
I just never thought
I’d have to see it

The Sunday Night Before You Left

The grass was crystallized from the cold,
clinging to the backs of our coats and heads.
We leaned into one another, into Earth
picking pieces of sky for our collection.

You told me the sky was made for holding,
because it held so many things.
The stars, burning still in the grasp of the sky
and the moon, a solid rock held captive.

We pressed our hands together,
as if when we let them sink,
they’d never find their way back again.

Leaning into you, into Earth
with pieces of sky in our hands
was when you told me you loved me,
and I believed you then. 

Ashes to Ashes

I am scraps
and bones crafted
from your skin.

My limbs are yours,
wrapped in Irish cream
freckled and pail.
My temper is yours,
sparked by the prick of a finger
or the whistle of a tea kettle,
burning like I do.

My hair, unruly and wild,
mimics the rough curls of brown
brushed back behind your ears.
I can fit in the blue waves in your eyes,
swing by the legs of smoke rings
spiraling from your cigarette
still burning in between your
middle and index finger.

You made a bed of the recliner in your
tattered country home with your arm
resting on a ketchup stain
that was matted to the fabric as you slept.

The smoke from the cigarette grew hungry
and devoured the carpet underneath you
until you sat in a sea of flames.
Fast asleep as the flames grabbed the
end table, lamp shade, pillows
on the couch, and eventually you.

The same bones that created me
scattered into ashes—
gliding through the clouds of smoke
and angry rushing flames.

I am in your bones, the crease in your lips when you
smile, in the red of your blood running hot,
and you left me swinging
by the legs of smoke rings
as they took you.

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