my heart is as sour as a poet's should be
as sour as poetry
It drips of the meagre sounds of its own reflection
the stuttering gasp of wind's perfect complexion
i collect shadows and fill them in balloons
cup them in my arms with bent elbows and craving fingers
-one? or two spoons?-
as my overly-honeyed tea condenses through to the back of my epiglottis
my hands must wrap their fingers around it
around the ribbons jailing the breath of these balloons
my arms hold them close to the pit at the bottom of my belly
they are overworked
and I drink,
with the sour zest of poetry
lemons plucked not from the branch, but the root
they are fresher that way,
the right amount of ripe
and sour
i rinse them of their grainy skin-like texture
under the almost-warmth of the august sun
in a blue rubber pool
of a somewhat similar texture
or so say my arms
they are overworked
and I swim,
in the sour zest of poetry
i cut a slice from my arm, hoping that it is delicious
it is not.
but if these arms are all that I have
i will hold in their embrace
the sun that i stole from autumn;
for that is your heart
and mine?
nestled and asleep
in the veins threading my arms
they are overworked
and I burn,
in the sour zest of poetry
the night sky
tender,
covered
under its sheets of tin
but how do i veil your moonless sky?
the linen is tucked out of the edges of the bed
I must reach my arms up and out
the stars sting
and the breath warms
they are falling asleep
the children
they have found the milk
I cradle them
against the melting earthen pots of my elbows
behind my arms
they are overworked
and i touch
the sour zest of poetry
~jhinuk