Under the Carapace
Under the carapace
of strait shirtwaist,
her breasts nestled
like turtle doves.
In his grey wold
of rim and wheel, they were all
that made the world round.
He found his lips seeking
their tips, as if his mouth were the shell
of an ear that sought
bird song–or maybe it was ocean–he had no notion what
he heard–only that he wanted to curl
into the orbit of that roar/coo, wresting
dawn’s aureole from night’s fall, though, truly,
just resting.
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13th poem for April National Poetry Month belatedly for Izy’s prompt on Real Toads about Soviet Kitsch, an old USSR sci-fi poster above. (I don’t have the information re creators and copyright, but I believe it’s free use.) I may be a bit late returning comments, as very busy right now.
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