She lives beneath my skin
A blind and tortured viper gliding through darkness
Looking for air and light and the right way to escape
This slithering princess with her endless needs, lusty and lithe
Her creamy hands clutching at pearls of wisdom while swine await their bounty
The scenes float down, manna for a-muse-ment
Gossamer dreamscapes that undress me in the early blue
Lingering over my sleeping skin
Nestling in the fertile crescent of my body
Only to be gone when I awake
Stinging shadow image through closed lids
Teasing lover spiriting away, violet scarf aflutter
And I, setting the table for company that never arrives
Sometimes I get the words right, or at least not wrong
And my writing, she stands on proud, strong legs
Bare-breasted and bold
Sexy as sin on a Sunday
Then, the war within to cannibalize my essence
A soul-slicing, wolfen attempt to scoop out the meaty flesh at the heart
Of all that I am
Drenched in bloody attempts at success
I am a great moaning beast whose blood flow slows
To the muddiest of paces
Brain, brash mother of all thought and word
Is stirrup-ed and heaving under harsh lights
Thighs quivering but not delivering
Anything but ooze and misshapen potential
In this, she and I are twins
Aiming, failing to produce and reproduce
The Ultimate Poetry
Plath’s riddle in nine syllables, her fat purse rich with money
Wordless dirge, flayed heart
And yet, I circulate in a world teeming with meaning
Pregnant with the things we know but can’t speak
Lush as an August rain falling from soaked limbs
He sits four feet from me, lips loose and succulent
Skin redolent with sacred intimacy while those magnificent hands
(the ones that roam my landscape in the still breath of night)
Sketch tiny beauty onto a piece of sea glass
Is there a word bigger than love, he asks
How do I explain the hot star at my core
The deafening waves of need I feel
The vulnerable, collapsible world we inhabit
That his scents incite me to blossoming
And how love is a dangerous business
Full of thrusting, feinting and possible death
But in this, my crude tools lack luster
They are pablum and circuses, safe for babies
Clear, odorless and edible
So I grab my spade in silence and dig a slow channel from my soul to yours
While my eyes tell of the mystery of you
Rebeca Ervin has been a professional communicator for more than two decades, first as a journalist and press secretary, and now as a legal marketing professional in Washington, DC. She enjoys photography and is an avid reader of just about anything, but it is in writing poetry that she finds her soul soaring. A native of San Antonio, Texas, she is now firmly planted in the rich soil of the Old Dominion State with her husband and three bonus-children. Follow her on Twitter at @RebecaErvin.
