Chartreuse as a Feeling
like coiled flowers I burst when loosed,
but the loosing is part of who I am.
I could never stop that sort of liquid:
a river rushing through my teeth,
rushing through my veins,
leaving an imprint
on the memory-foam mattress,
crusted with a coat of flesh
where I used to lay my heart.
It's the voice of second-person
recognizing my fervent thoughts--
You aren't good enough
for the love which you seek.
therefore I am
salt in a potted plant.
It is vined like pothos,
dropping leaves between
the floorboards as they yellow
and fall away. I look
for every one.
But you swear you heard
the weeping willows
outside my gaping door.
They sucked away the entire sky,
leaving nothing but chartreuse.
a blade's growing tells
or rainbow sky or midnight blue
which of many coalescing veils
black bordered black, space or infinity
colors gray matter. Tells
if flesh reknits
like a snowman in life's blizzard; or bones mend
straight and rigid, July sun waiting--
flesh a peach's flush, blood an electric line.
David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his works can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, Five 2 One Magazine, etc.
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