Image by mac231 from Pixabay

with time you see the golden threads

connecting you, me, us, the past

each pulse bringing gifts

bringing poisons given with love as children

not knowing

.

with time you see everything

your side and his and hers and theirs

all the facets diamond-sharp

is it pain or joy

.

when you look too long at it

you’re left with double vision

i can’t see my side without seeing your own

.

Copyright 2021 Autumn Looijen

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Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

If you try to write poetry

when checklists are on your mind

The imagery is off

Everything crisp and black and white in the name of speed.

Poetry is inefficient

It takes

[ ] time

[ ] perspective

[ ] a delicious sense of humor (optional)

which you cannot find in paragraph 1.A.iii.

(See paragraph 1.B.viii instead.)

No one looks up from a lease agreement and says, how beautiful, how striking.

No, it’s how clear, how precise

Brains crunching words like numbers

While the rest of us waits to breathe.

©2020 Autumn Looijen

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Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay

Slow spirals, gentle pressure, turn the heat up. Oil the edges.

It’s firming up as we kiss. One minute only; we can’t let it burn.

Turn away, a flick of the wrist, turn the heat down.

I’ve only just stepped into the forest of your eyes and already I’m lost, my breadcrumbs disappeared. I find my way back by the scent of dosas browning on the stove.

© Copyright 2020 Autumn Looijen

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Image by Thuan Vo from Pixabay

I remember

One playhouse,

Two chairs,

Four blankets,

Twenty drops of rain,

Your hands working beside mine

Before I’d even asked.

Crickets in the night,

Your face unmasked in the garden lights,

Conversation so good, our clothes stayed on.

Childhood poems and rethinking history:

Systems to be undone,

Holes to fill.

Where is my little voice that always says no?

Rushing to the cliff’s edge and pulling back

Again and again

Calling your name in the dark

Hands brushing the grass

© Copyright 2020 Autumn Looijen

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The kitchen is my favorite place

Better even than the worn futon where we stayed up till dawn

Tongues busy with lust and conversation.

In the daytime kitchen we cook,

A dance of knives and fire and longing

And in the nighttime

By the hood light

In the nighttime kitchen we give in to the fire

Your fingers in my cunt

Moving together as the pressure builds and we rock against each other

Everything spiced with the taste of danger

© Copyright 2020 Autumn Looijen

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