by Kathleen Kelly
(06/17/09)
You said my writing wasn't honest enough.
That I didn't expose myself.
That I withheld myself from the reader.
Tonight, I am at that place where you want no one to see you
and yet need terribly to be seen.
I am in need of a reader.
I want no one to read me but you.
If you're not seen, will you disappear?
I am
Full of trepidation and defiance.
Without regret.
Animal scared.
Desirous, so goddamn desirous
but coming up empty with all but sobs.
Finally, after an hour of trying, of sweating, writhing, more tears,
finally, finally gulping in air and your name.
Your name punctuating this dark, chilled night that is turning us all toward winter.
Your name -- growled, buzzed, hissed, exalted --
echoes in this empty room (retreat or cell).
Inhaling the scent of my own hand.
There is no one else's mouth here to caress with my fingers,
to enter and tease.
No one else's jaw to clasp, no one's tongue to taste me.
No one's hand on the back of my head drawing me down,
deeper and deeper.
The center of me.
The wanting of me.
The brilliance that is so frightened of being extinguished.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux