And you struggle to express
the way your heart’s eurythmics
leave you ringing in an afterglow,
just from a chance encounter –
the current object of your teen desire.

I, with my poet’s mouth, full
with ready metaphor,
place a quiet hand over yours,
recall it tiny, held between
my thumb and index,
see my own youth’s waste and spill –
of poured seed to a silo’s draw and drain
in feeding swine.

Hand on hand
I feel that smooth sand flow,
its steady, constricted flow.
My glass ebbs into yours,
and I whisper a hoarse ‘I know’.

© Caroline Fox Betts 2010

No comments yet.

Leave a Reply

Spam blocker Time limit is exhausted. Please reload CAPTCHA.