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Limb Division


Sex tastes like jelly slime

Coffee grinds,  sweeter times

Tomato paste. tomato lime

Low, tender reminder

Sometimes the presence of space is the

Absence of time.

 

Sometimes there’s no profuse meaning in rhyme.

Sometimes the chicken just needs a little bit more thyme.

May babies lay in bed, interlaced, entangled in the wonderment of birth in death

In passion in

Tiny rose tinted breaths

Of what you read and what you have read.

 

None will express the significance of your bed

To a heathen, scarred lover

Smelling of minced garlic, burnt leather

Liberate the uncertainty

You carry with a grim, reluctant wave of

Viper bitter

Venom coating the iris of your visual

Olfactory, like

Sour, dry ginger drawled voice with a hint of tequila,

What does it mean?

Is it even relevant?

 

Systematic apathy

Under the nails,

Staining, symbolic

Soft vocal timber.

You are an avalanche

And my arm position is the passionate snapping,

Triggering your release,

How holding back has clouded

My morally glazed, revisionary vision

A nearly significant tier,

Closer to empathetic logic

Than the conformational biased propaganda you spout.

 

Clearly there’s no bias

Edge of a ladder, I would rather

Love and love than love and leave.

Take this palm, please don’t use teeth.


If you like Casey’s poetry, be sure to check back every Wednesday for new poems from local poets!  Also, take a look at our recent piece on the rising women poets of New Orleans!

Casey has been writing for a decade.  When she’s not writing she can be found slinging coffee in Uptown.

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