Friday, January 13, 2012

Wing

In the dreams of a dragon
heat sings, fire, crackling bones
a shimmer of scales and the smell
of hot mammalian fear,
a flash of prey refracted
sixteen times over
by faceted lizard eyes

When dragons dream, they call down
all seven senses, no mere technicolor:
sapphire, black and rose,
when the tongue is flooded over
with scalding feral blood, and the south-wind
draws a winged membrane with a
~ whoomp ~
into fullness, lean and proud

Rachel Westfall
January 13, 2012

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Once you swam with me

I could write about how the night air
moved and shimmered, enveloping
the polluted river in a silky fog.

How our skin itched and crawled when we
pulled ourselves up onto the rocky bank,
and rubbed ourselves raw
with stiff, line-dried towels.

How our clothes clung and rolled up
against our clammy skin as we tugged them on,
and how we scrubbed our arms energetically
to try and tame the flocks of goose pimples
that hovered there.

I could write about who you were, then,
or where you've gone.

Or I could write about nothing at all.

Rachel Westfall
January 4, 2012