Poems

returning her home disheveled

back on her porch unbuttoned,
tresses tangled. bare
of berries.

you saw her ripe this morning,
scarlet and smooth.
now color drained,
stem-stripped.

my lips are red.

she will seem fruit again tomorrow,
rebloomed ruby, sundress hiding
blue hips. lace laundered,
clean of me. perfect

for backyard barbecue,
your hostess serving iced tea,
raspberry sweet
but fire shy,

already on my grill,
charred.

Workshop Hands

Before we find those places
that we fit, you pool.
Ribs rise, a gasp and grind
as if it already is. Yes,

it will happen low in a hard press,
but not until you know my hands.
Palm to waist and finger curl,
a scraping scratch and spread.

Do you feel the ocean,
the oak? Hook and nail?

Blood is leaking so you know
the sliced bluefish, the rub
of worked wood. The cock
that hardened for the reel,
petrified for every hammer hit
on timber. Slanted stiff

for feeding, for building,
the way it rises and rocks now
to nourish you, reconstruct you.
To spin you in, gut and sand you
new.

---

Mouthfire

You glaze your lips for me,
candent crimson
thick as spackle.

Naked, I see
you set them on fire,
eyes locked
as you light your red bait.

Twitch
from your mouth corners
as flame
draws its first boil.

I swell, a slow rise of need.
You thicken with honey
and another scarlet spread.

You place the lipstick down,
watch my blood rock
bloom.

©2005 by Patrick Carrington

                                                                                                                                                                                               

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New York City native Patrick Carrington teaches language arts and creative writing in southern New Jersey and lives on a secluded beach with his wife and the ocean they love. His poetry is forthcoming in various print journals, including Willard & Maple, Poetry Motel, and Clark Street Review, and online at thieves jargon.