Palea
Tory Dent
Tory Dent
Only my mouth taking you in, the greenery splayed deep green.
Within my mouth, your arm inserted, a stem of gestures, breaking gracefully.
Into each other we root arbitrarily, like bushes, silken, and guttural.
Palaver, we open for the thrill of closing, for the thrill of it: opening.
The night was so humid when I knelt on the steps, wet and cold, of prewar stone.
A charm bracelet of sorts we budded, handmade but brazen, as if organic.
I cannot imagine the end of my fascination, emblazoned but feather-white too.
The gold closure of this like a gold coin is, of course, ancient.
Why can't experience disseminate itself, be silken and brazen yet underwater?
A miniature Eiffel Tower, an enameled shamrock, a charm owned by its bracelet.
---The language of this poem is beautiful. I can accept the possibility that I am a charm owned by its bracelet. The title brought to mind the image that each of us are encased in the other, in all those we love, those we detest, those we pass on the street, just as a simple bud of wheat is encased in the chaff. Even our experiences and perceptions are bundled in layers of emotion, thought, filter, perspective. Language itself, the words, are layered with multiple meaning, and then how the words are spoken, the intent behind the word, even the voice adds a new depth. Truly, how can experience disseminate itself? | ||
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