The Medicinal Cotton Clouds Come Down to Cover Them by Mary Jo Bang

Reading love letters addressed to me.

The Medicinal Cotton Clouds Come Down to Cover Them
Mary Jo Bang

To smother their smallness
in felt. Unsatisfied folds, filmic
emotion — remote, pale and impalpable.
Each with their own secret
inflection of want.
There was no debate on this but merely a mood
shift when certain words were mentioned.
Inane nexus of speech, never quite capturing
the what invoked.
She slid her panties down over her hips.
The broidered hue of illusion,
idea drunk in the delicate gloom.
The picture of a hand becoming
a hand. Whose? Yes. Desire reworked stepwise,
a would weep. A was told and lying very still.
Was allowing just so to happen
to her. Neck nape a curve becoming
infinite abyss extended to wish, wish, wish,
and righty-o, a stunning result. Isn’t that nice?
Rosey-o, rosey-o. She woke, took one look:
Oh, it’s you. Yes. I thought I dreamed you.
Siren girls sang somewhere. Nice, she said. Nice.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s