Itchy Middle Back.
Once I asked you a technical question
regarding the gears of great love.
I wanted symbols of math
upon a classified schematic.
Instead, I heard a very sensual voice
where twilight pounded
powders of gold into pink linen strips.
Don’t Make Me Blush.
From that moment on, my praise for you streamed
out clear blue columns like a watering can
where a wind punched holes through fine argument.
Clean As Tears.
Confession: there is something on my heart
I have gathered in silence, akin to cherry freckles.
Never once will I ask you
to connect them.
The idea of living up to a rigid constellation
while staring deep inside my chest
feels completely off.
Also, I’m afraid you might name it
after something sweaty and bald instead of
Holy Boxspring.
You are asking as much of my mind
as I ask of my favorite novels.
Made In Our Image.
I haven’t laughed this hard
since you flashed me
a vision of my bodily death.
Walking footpaths along a jungle safari.
Next a big right hook from a silverback ape.
Planted like a pale bud among gargantuan ferns.
The vision panned out to a reticent troupe of gorillas
huffing up and down my placid girth, buffing out
my lobes with their god-sized whiffs.
Always Listening.
Eight minutes ago, I thought you were a peach—
that really cold, nearly frozen peach
wifey threw at me, chucked right into my temple.
Now she’s correcting me: punch
not peach.
Fruitful Prophecy.
Picturing both, I feel my face
begin to smolder—eyebrows swelling
into orangutan twins
cupping their meaty gloves,
thunder clapping their leather
tits from two separate firestones.
Only to wind up doing nothing in revenge.
Last night, I half-blinked the world,
which unfolded into sleep. You sent a dream: I
was adding one more second
to a commercial oven, repeatedly flashing
DONE.
DONE.
DONE.
Once I thought you were showing me the future,
but that was just my life passing on without me.
Your world was filling me in,
replacing my life with pure vision.
Give me twelve more tokens
to buy one more sun. When I run out
it’s the coldest thing possible.
One more minute in the kitchen.
I can always take the heat.
Maybe cleaning a dish, or buttering popcorn.
Sneaking M&Ms while the bag of corn erupts.
Stop.
Go Outside.
Big deal—same old dark
suckling hard against the beads.
Look Within.
Something near untouchable
shimmying my back against the belly
of the ancient backyard beech.
--
Originally published by us
--
By Ford McDonald 👍
Poetry Nightly 
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