The World of Dew

There was a time to feel these things:
how to start
keeping something;
how to make

the way you nudged my chin out of the way
so you could kiss my neck

while the wind
kept blowing flowers
into little cups:
each stabbed in turn
by an indifferent insect.

Some days like this,
I spend entire hours
underneath death,

wondering how we started
pressing life through
thin paper images.

Grasped-at metaphors
waggle their flagrant clichés,
as I attempt to recreate
that previous fear of waking.

It is not enough to test
each loose end,
finding how the road splits.
Each path has not been

There’s only one way
to break apart
and this is it.

This is not the first time
I made someone forget
where they came from.

Her hair’s so silky,
it’s no wonder that you can’t
stay harsh.

But I miss
your blank page
wrapped like a book
you’d let me keep
opening up.


Copyright © 2017 Mindy Goorchenko All rights reserved.

This poem first appeared in The Latent Talent of Conception, Mindy’s published collection.

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