She raises her lips, a question
cresting the shadowed-sun crease
of her mouth, and though my arms loop
her in, unfolded prayer in the press
of warm skin and fraying cloth,
I see the wanting
that’s never found its legs, hear
the pull and snap of sutured sorrows
brawling for song in her throat.
I wonder how far down the yearning
trembles, where the first break
is a shuttered memory, leaking
a midnight hope, and how many seeds
the spirit scatters when displaced
by a desperate love.
And yet her body hums,
opens,
and I accept
her offering,
still unspoken,
giving my lips
to her kiss.
just simply, divine! i love the imagery, the words woven together become a prayer, don’t they?
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oh, too funny!!! i did not see that the title was “orphan prayer” –so, yes, they do become a prayer and you recognized that —xoxo
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I love that you thought that before seeing the title 🙂
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❤️ Just ❤️ It’s like every prayer, every broken piece, every seed scattered from the breaking is in their soulful eyes.
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