The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2005

I Close My Eyes When I Listen to Poetry

People notice. But I still close my eyes
in class, at readings. The table legs,
scarred floors, cups of coffee get in the way,
almost blur the words. Even the light
is too much. I don’t want to see you,
poet speaking from the books, poet of the open mike.
Not your fingertip scanning down the page,
not your mouth. I want to be
your mouth, in the dark, your tongue
between our lips, the liquid l’s and r’s,
a fricative f in that inverted kiss.
I wait for your keening words, your aching words,
first spoken with no one else there, sounds
of animal or infant, fragmented, green,
pawed through and kept. Still naked.
And when you pause, I breathe as you do,
leaning forward toward the last air in your throat,
your projected wanting, your final line.

Amy MacLennan