Scholars in LoveA Poem by Lydia BreakfastThis used to be called Mind F*****g...see what you think.“The purely private is not real,” he says, but she knows otherwise. Translating the intimate whisper of separate pencils on paper, giving voice to the philosophy of coupling, while explaining Peircean pragmatism. Proving conversation is superfluous. Neither looks when the other does speak, yet rapid-fire connections and cross-references flicker across synapses while attending to dinner. (Sparring words, liberally used in class, have no place at the table). Brushing teeth, a clamorous swishing, gargling, spitting and rinsing twin Rorschach blots of paste, leaving that fine spray of white on their dual reflection. Climbing into bed, a sonorous easing, groaning and squeaking of decades’ coils catching their bodies in side-by-side hollowed-out spaces. His glasses slipping down his nose; hers remaining firmly pressed into dents, as they peer into books. A quick lick of cross-hatched fingers turning pages, then turning covers up, blanketing the slumber of a mingled unconscious. Searching for knowledge, thirsting for truth, reaching, just beyond his head to take a sip of water from their communal glass on the nightstand. Interpreting his foot (grazing her toe in the grey light of dawn) is the abstract summary of an economy of dialogue. She understands the language.
© 2008 Lydia BreakfastFeatured Review
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24 Reviews Added on February 6, 2008 AuthorLydia BreakfastAboutShe only wishes she'd written this sentence: I will always be something glued together, something slightly broken. by A.M. Homes and aspires to write poetry as fluidly simple.. more..Writing
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