Tavern Tattoos: A Communion

Sitting here in my old drawings,
every one carefully clothed,
I watch braver, bare arms
fold across chests,
raise boisterous hellos over heads,
stretch wide and slow to find
an old lover’s full-sleeve embrace.
His three of swords in her poppy field.
Her ravens clawing his cross.
He buys her a beer.
Their pulses retrace
the sharp, blue story
of love fading,
lost in new needled filigree.
Skin pictures never stop breaching
their own boundaries,
whispering like prisoners,
raised like braille for the unblind,
like prayers no gods but eyes
and hands can hear.
So many gods! Even still,
such prayers often go

November 2012

4 Responses to “Tavern Tattoos: A Communion”

  1. Fey says:

    I can say without bias, this is one of your finest pieces. Home run hit in the final lines

    • wordweed says:

      It’s funny you like this one so much because I originally felt lukewarm about it….I found it on my Mac yesterday as I transferred files from my Dell to it. Thought I might as well post it since the muse has been a little quiet lately…

  2. Fey says:

    Maybe the muse is busy bringing starlight into the forest. That happens at Solstice.

  3. eduardo says:

    like prayers no gods but eyes
    and hands can hear.

    siiiighhhhhh. sublime. and just two days ago, at a Rosemerry Rumi workshop (R&R, in Telluride!), she brought up synesthesia. if only realized it was available, I would have used it for a sublime example. (maybe that’ll learn me to be more attentive!)

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