This Started off as a Love Poem

Youth is you,
O brother mine.
Golden clock hands choose
Angles,
acute/obtuse

Considering the dial,
as does
your smile.

Sometimes it’s ten:fifty,
or conversely, four:forty six
in your face-plain
the granite, too
awaits a turn
to be chiseled.

I swore before I’d never
leave this shanty

Never would consider
the land o plenty

Of city –
woe it’s demons, ghouls; their
wills ferocious, all
rightly await me –

Yet perchance a gift, a kiss,
an iron sentry –
your tempered steel hands

Which hesitate over me
I’ve learned that wolves, clever
pack hunters, will outrun,
and outsmart me

Eat me; jump me
might mate, me – tho my
willingness will arrive
in lackadaisy.

So I’m running, wet as liquid river,
in my flow down to your foot levee;
hands bent and craggled,
broke-back;
shoved in chin, snugly

My orange jumpsuit:
InComplete’s the theory –

O baby, o brother, o excellent father!
Don’t scold me for want
of some molten alloy to stop
the random ticking,
the warmth from your fire –

To melt my grooved
ice lines, my iridescent shiver-chin

The time is smiling and saying
now, now! while almanac
gripes of hardening winter,

Hands often freeze
when forgotten, lie
unwound and become rigid,

Lone wolf under snow, is
Never to be sated.

Photo Credit: kenwalton Flickr via Compfight cc

Elisabeth Horan

Elisabeth Horan is a poet mother student lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She writes to survive and survives to write - We are all battling something. Let's support each other. Elisabeth enjoys riding horses and caring for her cats, chickens, goats and children (not necessarily in that order). She teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire.

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