Pelvic bones from female wood

I never did listen carefully enough to the methods
or take in any more
instruction,
tuned more to the birds arguing
on the roof, still angry
but far from
destruction.
Trailing brainful of
useless information,
a fistful of ideas too
lost for creation.

From blinking I was my mother's;
natal is how I pronounced safety,
canopy that is thatched and hatched from
raking developing fingers through books
of glassy-eyed models with their secrets displayed.
I learned about shape and the flex of a woman
from borrowed looks and
I didn't ever see them that way.

Pelvic pink, that colour
is nesting under my tongue
and now that I'm not so young
(not old enough),
female wood is the kind
I carve but wouldn't
climb.

j 30/03/06

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AN: I gave in to the rambling disease, none of this was planned. (conquered a sociology exam and this title kept appearing in my planner, blame Freud he distracts me too often and no I'm not a horny schoolboy)