Yankeetalking
-For Lathrop

I've spent the better part of this nightmare envisioning
the onion-flavored husks of November, with its calico

speckled lungs, sighing, with a kind of frosted dropped brick sensation
across each lower extremity;

we are only
man
and
woman

in pelvis only. Still….

You find me strange, being that I'm
a Northern girl, being that I sprout spoken
soliloquy, rhyme in time with the hour of the
day, break the fray of hairline fractures, bite
down, lock-jawed on everything my mouth
comes across. Wait, nobly-kneed with a kind of
noble nose by the telephone just to hear its
silence. It's misshapen mockery of language
lingers on my tongue.

I say nothing.

We find each other awkward (only
by the windowsills, otherwise noted,
we look/feel/act & touch just fine) it's
merely an ambivalent let-down,

awkwardly tasting
November for the frost
bitten limb that it is.

First time fizzling; an amber hued excitement, each
overtly olive-shaped eyeball egging us on, foresight
is a faculty I often don't posses; unless I allow myself
to bloom, digress it fully, let my arms itch free of the
sides of my body, spread them out, like something meant
to bend. Press my fingers to each pitching, plummeting egress;

a hallway, shaped in much the same way as your face when you're lying with your head tilted to the right (right being a droit & a hinting thought process in the night, silence as any light left on to scare away meaning, and any shadow left meandering for it's own place to hide away to sleep through the night.)

I've waited my whole life
to feel November like this,
attacking me, like a maroon
sense of idealism, skipping on pointed
boot heels through the bedraggled
bed-ridden night.

my tongue, like an erection,
like a little girl in play,
always and forever, just running away.

November, November
with it's cotton-candy flavored teeth,
and my body lying somewhere
beneath it's weighted lightning strike,
a hike of a skirt, a house devoid of
mirth,

two silent polyglots; you boycotting
the bullshit of it, the banality, and beaten
backlash. Besmirched for my benefit.
I stand unmoved, waiting, as ever,
left to my silence and rot.