Backwards Into Cleveland
I would walk backwards
on broken glass,
whistle Dixie nude
in Cleveland
if you would come to me.
Bluebirds mock me.
My knees shake
with the furious lust
of a bewildered teen
flung headlong into puberty.
You poke around in your shop
somewhere out west,
Joanie on the radio,
unaware of my endless poems
scribbled and tossed.
You form their roots,
their stems, their petals,
wide open and vulnerable.
You have already forgotten
when my lips tasted like raspberries,
when the songs our bodies sang
were sweeter than those you've since sung.
Thoughts no longer come of mornings,
you slipped inside of me,
the sunrise undressing in our very eyes.
Pris Campbell
©2007
Published in Words Dance
Summer 2007
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