When I Get to Lick the Moon
hummingbirds disjointed and fragmented
in a strobe light see colors we can’t hear
and lambs, coiling bits of cloud fallen to earth
quiet my headache’s electric lobster spines
like a rosebud eases ennui, rehearses instability
in agricultures of infra-red, a noun phrase
loneliness models, the carnival of our dog barking
across beams of sound, that screech of light
when bee girl finds the garden of dancing bee-people
and a poem sees us thru both sides of the page.
Whitman with his post-Freudian smoking popsicle
flowers in a jewel-box sex craze I place in orbit
to hover at the border of how I become you inside,
your face’s flower an aperture thru which I taste
our kiss. We say first time absurdities in a vocabulary
of cherries, scriptural amphibians sequined
by lunar texture, scratch of sunlit tongue, nostrils
powdered with incense of spent firecracker.
.
Little Boat Running Over (an aubade)
How like children as we love
under our thatch of starlight, filtered
through our mother’s ghost, a cooling
iridescent milk. We the moon-blue
horizon behind the portal of her eyes—
Soft! We’ll not awaken today at any rate;
let tomorrow lie as night ungods us
from that bramble-stoked light storm
morning. Hymen’s dawn cap draws in
from this devouring a round mouth
fused by untutored tongue, ground
undone in the mushroom crush of Pan,
flippant boy of kaleidoscope earth’s
fractal burn. Elixir of toadstool drunk
from hellflower stamen. Moon moths flex
in these branches of Neverland. We eat
the hunger of its tall suns, flame down
and gnash our baby teeth against the day
to feed from the cups of smaller hands.
Let grown-ups fly jets, take prisoners
while we swim the laurel of her hair, weave
its tinseled strands, cry aloud— Parent me!
Spin us, emerald fish in your cavern, lest we
flutter our fins into sunlight and die for good.
© Bobby Parrott
Bobby Parrott‘s poems appear in Tilted House, RHINO, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Atticus Review, The Hopper, Rabid Oak, Exacting Clam, Neologism, and elsewhere. Wearing a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles, this writer, originally from Maryland, dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule known as Fort Collins, Colorado.
The Loch Raven Review 