r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal spring 2008 poetry
getting there by scott owens
getting there by scott owens
When he gets there she is waiting
in the white room, the walls
as fragile as shells, floor
like sand, bed
a tumble of waves.
When he gets there she says,
Let's make words like windows
rattling. Let's make words like cicadas
screaming at dusk. Let's make words
like sounds only our bodies remember.
When he gets there he feels
the lines swelling inside her.
He feels her leading him to them,
saying, Touch here, wet your lips,
place your mouth on this, loosen your tongue,
open slowly this patient cup of waiting.
in the white room, the walls
as fragile as shells, floor
like sand, bed
a tumble of waves.
When he gets there she says,
Let's make words like windows
rattling. Let's make words like cicadas
screaming at dusk. Let's make words
like sounds only our bodies remember.
When he gets there he feels
the lines swelling inside her.
He feels her leading him to them,
saying, Touch here, wet your lips,
place your mouth on this, loosen your tongue,
open slowly this patient cup of waiting.