Os, oris

5 Oct 2012

Elodie Olson-Coons

 

 

 

 

More than anything,

 

language

 

whetted

your tongue,

let it hone

sacrilegious,

hammering,

oceaning,

distill into lapping silence.

 

The parted

mouthfuls, flowering

devouring

flow.

My spine – axis –

tilts, versed.

The turn of the tide:

Wyrd.

Word.

Love is a/live

 

attempt           coming

together

better.

Worse-

Love is the gravity

of honey in the bones,

wombed, suckled,

tongued to flame.

 

Transfiguration: enthalpy.

A lump of pewter in the gullet

the strain of a bullet

(whitehot, interstellar)

plumbed, plummeting

(gravity)

home.

 

Entropy: conversion.

Milk in honey. Body and body.

Con/versation: we turn towards,

We are versed

in each other.

 

More than anything

I fear

love     as parallel

parallax,

paralysis.

A yearning to comet

from the diaphragm

serpentine, stellar.

 

It turpentines

the veins.

 

More than anything

I

(want)

 

A mouthful of words

wounds, winds,

 

The milky trail

shivering, electric;

A canticle

xxxxxxCanted, vertiginous,

your tongue’s still semantics.

 

Image copyright: Forest Wander/Creative Commons