My phone-calls swell in strangeness, they caress in sound, using words to simulate the brush of fingertips across my lips. I think of weight, bodies touching, my hands gliding as if on ocean across your back, salt on my lips like the edge of a glass. My calls cry out in darkness and in daylight, shy but willing to bare, to bear, for the price of sweetness, for the delight of it. Send you home singing, send you home to my name. Send you home with hands. <\/p>\n
All this week my heart has been aching like a bad writers cliche, feeling as if it was replaced by a chunk of pale bone when I wasn’t looking, when my eyes were glued emptily out the window at my countries endless bramble and trees. It pulled from my chest in magnetic grace for my love, keening at night for his voice. Every face was underlaid with his, every breath fighting to see him like I was living an out-dated novel. This poem came to mind when I wondered what the doctors had to say, when I caught my hand to my throat in pain. I never knew who wrote it, but in luck, someone posted it today in the comments of a friends journal. <\/p>\n
Apparently the author is a woman named Pamela Gillilan.<\/p>\n
Four Years <\/b>
\n
\nThe smell of him went soon
\nfrom all his shirts.
\nI sent them for jumble,
\nand the sweaters and suits.
\nThe shoes
\nheld more of him; he was printed
\ninto his shoes. I did not burn
\nor throw or give them away.
\nTime has denatured them now.<\/p>\n
Nothing left.
\nThere will never be
\na hair of his in a comb.
\nBut I want to believe
\nthat in the shifting housedust
\nminute presences still drift:
\nan eyelash,
\na hard crescent cut from a fingernail,
\nthat sometimes
\nbetween the folds of a curtain
\nor the covers of a book
\nI touch
\na flake of his skin.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My phone-calls swell in strangeness, they caress in sound, using words to simulate the brush of fingertips across my lips. I think of weight, bodies touching, my hands gliding as if on ocean across your back, salt on my lips like the edge of a glass. My calls cry out in darkness and in daylight, … Continue reading “synchronizers”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1263","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1263","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1263"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1263\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1263"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1263"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1263"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}