Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: V. Dream/Moted/Motet


The air is saffron with moted dust.

We sit

(on a bale of used clothing

raised and round as a dais).

Joined at the hip,

Gemini’s twins

but with legs facing out, opposite,

mirror fashion.

Left arms crossed inwards,

left hands rest

lightly on the other’s right hip;

I can feel the familiar arc of it

humming through cotton and skin,

the current of relief

turns over the silent, glacial lake within.

We are thisclose

(heads bowed, our temples almost touch).

Your face broken into cubist planes by proximity

seeing the whole would mean

dividing a fraction.


From the corner of the room

she’s looking at me;

Madonna Dolorosa,

cheeks as pink as Fra Angelico’s

forbidden mistress.

By bonniemcclellan

Mother, poet, american ex-pat from Texas living in Northern Italy.

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