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Love Poem to the Light before Sleep by Brandi George

April 1, 2012 Contributed By: Brandi George

These, my lips, parted
with an oh-jeez-oh-man. Pale
angel’s bag of suns,
my heart counts new mornings
by a face held to my belly.  A great orb

silvers over the spoiled wheat
of my sex tapes—oh, various enlightenments
swell and crush, but
you are atomic, killer, my darling

dear of the capsized raiment—
there are seven deadly sins I’d sickle
onto my soul for one brush of your stubbly
chin against my cheek

because this, my voice,
sounds as sand in the night’s
eyeball, where I wrap my legs like a vine
while the hereafter sends itself flowers

and I cry:  I have known
the heart of the earth!  Never sun
because fire gets pissed into nebulas—
but never you, great shade atrium, great Picasso

eye— you are the purple ball of my dreams,
the star-field I duck through
while wooing this, my air, my open
birdcage of breath.

Return to table of contents for Issue 5 Spring 2012

Filed Under: Poetry Posted On: April 1, 2012

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This poem was nominated for The Best of the Net. Hello doctor, I’m having bad thoughts. I want to call you on the phone and tell you about bleach and corn and suffering. I want you to tell me what to do, but don’t make me do it. Here is the problem: What if we […]

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This is how it happened. It was early in the evening. William was home, practicing his piano, when his older brother Rhodias and his squadron comrades, seven of them, arrived. The moment he heard the door and recognized voices, he shut off, afraid, and hurried to the sofa. “Did I stop on time?” he asked […]

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It is a strange house. Look: the hand suddenly opens sleeping doors. There are fine staircases and high windows. The windows are open and voices can be heard singing. Singing with the voice of the earth and the air of the sky. Slow voices descend black stairs. White voices descend trembling lofty columns. They sing […]

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