Sixth Hour
Amanda Krupman
Draped
with a translucent sheath of color
a dank scent of mother and earth
he still dons exhilaration, that of which
we've let fall from our hands: grimy, saturated
with the sweat
of
passing time.
At first glance,
he could be made of crumbling bark and salt,
milk, and the incomprehensible depth of water's breath.
Though I wonder if he knows through what I'm built
congregated mothers (big women
small houses)
and the fetid scent of tar and hairspray.
I muse over this charcoal smear of a boy
caught
between desire and action
I lick adjectives off of my teeth
nearly allow thoughts to solidify into an ear's invite.
But we
are
still back there.
Massaging the heels of our feet on pavement
embarking on a journey toward wide-eyed glances
seven day conversations
and I defy!
You concur.
And we are left with one certainty:
that we are not the sun
nor the salivating pulse of this desperate moon
but tiny ids
cloistered numbers
skinning our egos as we fall on words
and nimble grins.
© Amanda Krupman
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