I listen to my shadow, spelling words
of moon, a certain taste in songs, the grass
beside the path we used to walk where birds
were flutes and taste of secret books. “It’s passed”
your voice is painted red with weight of lead.
You touch me softly, but I hear just glass
the coldness of perfumes unsmelled, what’s dead
between a sense of skins. Your hair’s a veil
a shadow spelling words of sins that’s fed
and sacrificed for syllables gone stale.
Absence taste like beer, smells like cigarettes,
with hues of drumbeats in December gales.
I leave the meadows where we were beset
by honeysuckled sweetness I’ve forgot.
Today Victoria wants us to use ”synesthesia” in poetry–where you mix up sensory sensations such as “tasting a rainbow”. I have tried to do this in a little heavily enjambed terza-rima sonnet. Please come and join us. The pub opens at 3 PM EST.
December 3, 2015