Bellingen Poets in Nimbin 2010

Bellingen Poets in Nimbin 2010
Taking Home The World Cup!!!

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Green –eyed.

© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2005

My lovers eyes are green
but his soul cannot be gleaned
I talk, I open, I reveal.
I would give it all away…
No … not my heart, not my soul
which is well protected
not like Ned Kelly’s in 80 kilos of steel
but sealed in a net, like spiders threads
delicate but strong.

I feel. I feel.
I feel our hearts beating.
I want to peel away the layers
and find the jewel.

I breathe my lover in
I know his smell
but the rest of him?
A perfect stranger.
Alluring, beautiful
hesitantly offering
small kindnesses
small hurts.

A few steps forwards, sideways, backwards
an anxious dance, the dance of lovers
when no one is quite sure of the steps
no one is leading or sure of where they want to go.

He looks into my eyes and I look back
tongue-tied, mutually mute.
He talks to everyone, but me…
and I…feel. I feel…
I feel lonely.

He moves amongst the people like a graceful horse
bestowing charms; Flexing, prancing, stretching
all glorious muscle planted in the ground.

My lover cooks for me
meals full of richness and flavour
His hands like an artisan
he moulds bread, hacks weeds
picks fruit straight from the tree.
He says what you see is what you get…
I have to disagree.

He likes kissing but is hesitant with intimacy
He likes hugs but is … lazy … with foreplay.
He knows about my clitoris
(but not the crook of my arm, my wrists, my belly…)
He likes fucking slowly
He likes cheesecake, his own cooking.
He likes me.

The first thing I see in my lover, long before he was my lover.
His skin. Like a child’s, clear, unlined, unblemished, unscarred.
Unlike mine, lined with life stories, scars, silvery stretch marks
veins, spidery or blue, mottled and swollen from carrying children
dimples, a baby belly, suckled breasts that tell a female tale…
She’s fat, she’s thin, she’s sad, she’s happy, she frowns
Smiling lines, laughing lines, weary shadows.

My lovers eyes are green.
He smoothes the bed cover over his bed
so that the pattern perfectly aligns.
He talks about commitment like he is trying it on for size…
I don’t think it fits, it constricts, like a suit and tie.
It roles off like a drop of water on oily skin.
He thinks it’s what I want to hear but
I am emerging from a connubial nightmare, so
I am curious about him
but he’s too scared to let me in.

I sit alone
I watch him over blueberries and a latte
restless, he gravitates back to me.
His eyes flicker over the crowd
sometimes he strokes my hair tenderly, he kisses my face
he places his hand in the small of my back like he owns me
like he’s guiding me back to him, for a moment
he unfolds, unfurls slowly, but not completely.

The seed of the end was clearly seen in the first hours
covered in a rubble of passion and soft kisses
fragrant caresses and earthy sighs.

How time can wear a lover down
beyond acceptance
to look for greener grass.
My lover had green eyes.

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