My Other

About sexual guilt, a realization of just how deep mother-connections go....

                My Other

 

She watches

from the top of your head,

bucking the ride

up and down, and up,

up, and down.

That face above your face

never shuts her eyes.

Our secrets, oh, the secrets,

my dear, she knows them all.

Eyes behind my eyes,

she won't open

her lips.

 

You open mine smooth,

smooth and swift,

you staccato my skin.

Each frenzy point sparks

a fire.  Look, there,

my thighs are scorched,

your hand is charred.

 

She keeps house behind my lids,

picking clean the red flesh,

like a hawk on a pole.

Her old woman's face,

round as a monthly moon,

mocks me.

Author's Note

all comments welcome

Reviews

[Hedra Helix]

wow, serious conflict, its sexy but wrong and subtle but blunt at once, and its spare too, like your other works, no fat, but rich and whole. I dig.

[Winter McPherson]

This is a great poem. It's eerie...someone watching while the person is in the throes of passion. It really captures the self-consciousness that can plague a person. The feeling one cannot shake of having someone's eyes on us or being in our head. My favorite lines:
"She keeps house behind my lids,

picking clean the red flesh,

like a hawk on a pole."

Great write!

[Sandra Rains DeBusk]

Toni, I read this and got cold chills. Not many people will understand it, but those who do, will ponder on it, like I am.

[radian7]

OK, you are writing in first, second and third person. I get the impression that the judging older lady "behind her lids" or looking from above her head is watching the writer (first person) having a sexual encounter. That is where i went reading this. I am misreading?