by John Biscello From his forthcoming collection of poems, Arclight, publishing this February by Indie Blu(e) Publishing ....................................... Dawn. The sea breeze, salt-fringed, rolls in through the opened glass doors, its damp fingers sifting and touching upon the cravings, rent and folds of our shared bare skin, It’s like home, you say, and this makes me dig my nails in deeper, like a feral cat, just learning how to regulate and express its affection through its claws, Like a poem, is what you say next, and I lay my head on your chest and stay there no longer the boy I was the one who used to be terrified of hearts, ones belonging to others, my own, something about the beating freaked me out, i.e., when I’d place my hand over my own heart I couldn’t bear it it felt too powerful too real too something and I’d quickly withdraw to spare myself both the cause and effect. I am not that boy anymore. I let my head stay on your chest, your breathing a lullaby-raft upon which I feel safe and secure, held, and soothed to no end, I allow my ear to openly receive the music of your heart, its rabbit-beatings, I listen, when you tell me this is all there is, I listen, when you giggle at my off-color remarks involving salt, dust, bones, honey, and you, I listen, when you laugh at my riff on junkie clowns staring down nostalgic maraschino sunsets, and when I ask you to tell me something good, something sweet, and you speak my name, three times, softly, I listen, then watch as you begin to cry, from open wounds, soundlessly.
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