spark.
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
There are two ways
to a woman’s heart. A resonant
voice and ample
hands, so when used together a spark
begins. I’m known for burning
my way through
men like good herb
never content enough to simmer
‘til you came.
6’4, matchbox smile, reddish brown clay skin.
Your flesh settled between
my fingers like bread dough, my favorite
parts of you rising
much like the yeast.
I knew you,
before cleats consumed your life
like fire to flesh.
You were muse to explosions in my mind,
fuse for every poem I’ve yet to ignite.
your voice was a gold star in elementary, hard to
come by, but well worth the wait.
I wonder if you remember the day
I found out my chances of procuring breast cancer
were better than your chances of
making it to the league.
You asked me, “What do I feel
when I hold you?” Took my back in your palms
like prayer cloths, smoothing the skin like wrinkles,
and held me like tomorrow was a promise
we’d forgotten in the wake of night.
All you had were questions. Your fingertips
were counsel for my innocence pleading guilty,
asking does it feel good, like you didn’t know.
Candlelight is but a small flame, and shadows
that reach from your smile to my waist
relay messages of proximity that we never
laid claim to; I never realized that lips and duvets
and knees and thighs and
Sade and spaces that never see sunlight
can bring such warmth. You just wanted me to
consider taking the place of your thirteenth rib
and I obliged, if only for a moment or two,
we were one.
When I went to blow the candles
into memory, you asked my bare frame, how it
could be that even when
inside me I was distant. You taught me, so
I let my hands speak: placed a finger to
your lips, extracted a lighter from my jeans
resting on the floor, and sighed into you
that flames only exist with air, and when I
breathe you only time is extinguished; that you are
heir to a reaction that exhales love, perspiration,
and light. So distance is imaginary,
as long flame still arrives
when our fingers summon it. Summon me
my darling, because I’ll come
if your hands and tenor are beckoning,
as long as you can take the heat.
I’ll Lie Alone
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
Beware: I lie. Sometimes deep in wounds, mingling with the salt of sweat or tears as a reminder of my existence. I can lie in your arms, birthing hope that I won’t leave again. I lye the skin you imagined had thickened with miles and minutes, but never quite resisted my touch. I’ll lie low in your thoughts, those quiet places you’ll find me in, when the moon tilts toward your face. So let me lie alone, because his gift is meant for solitude, and I love you is the lie I’ll never tell.
Writer’s Block
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
You say you are close to me. Prove it.
I tried once already, and I can only measure
proximity in fonts and the throwing of stones.
It seems the glass housing my thoughts
is too easily shattered at it’s own hand.
I broke your writer’s block.
whenever, wherever, whatever
You moved like ink.
I remained stationary,
waiting for a word, a mark, a stain,
a stinging tentacle, or perhaps, a slap.
Fingers testing my temple
so I prayed the pain away.
You wrote me a sonnet of solace
in the Braille of bruises.
whenever, wherever, whatever
It didn’t matter. Your story’s setting, that is.
I am your paper thin confidante.
Make a letter out of me, signed with
backhand typeface. Send the world out to see.
Me? I’m content with warning: you can
hear the canvas cries when his fingers paint.
whenever, wherever, whatever
Papas
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
I know you.
Pompous in exterior,
The extant,
Ex wrought iron armor.
Glistening like mornings dew.
About face,to
a mirror.
Droplets plummet,
Accompanied by slumber’s evidence.
Wide awake.
My Mr. Potatohead,
Dense, fibrous and rooted,
Key to amygdaloid compass.
Palms acquainted with sun, raised
Infinitely to greet her face.
My face.
I watch you in awe.
Curve of jaw, bone
Of nose ready to take flight.
Lifted in proud cognizance of
self.
Treading lightly on rest,
More apt to show power,
Motion in steering towards.
Drawing lines, uniting us.
Oh how you love me.
I won’t know it,
For it is not to be known.
The X factor, making my
Reflection over why I love axes,
And my exes weren’t it.
You are the sonnet to my starstruck map,
Leading to kneeling at altars,
Needing what can’t be altered,
Rocking bands, no games,
Play-doh and tiny socks.
I know you.
The one who won’t leave,
For sake of me and your seed.
Contrary to my own,
Is everything you will be.
Papa, food for the soul.
