so typical...almost a week, and i haven't blogged. i've walked and read and written in other venues but haven't blogged. the week in poetry has been productive. i'm involved in an online, two-month workshop with jimmy bacca! he's great--gives fine critiques and inspiring assignments. all i want to do is hang out and write poetry. think i'll post another selection from my chapbook, _southern girl gone wrong_. enjoy the weekend. ciao, rhoda
Summer at Thirteen
Anna Claire and I never like tall grass
afraid we’ll step on a cottonmouth.
But water the color of indigo
waits for us the other side of danger.
We shed jeans, shirts, underwear,
mark our place at the edge,
hold hands like Ruth and Naomi,
wade into the deep.
With each step, water moves higher,
chills our new breasts.
I throw my arms around Anna Claire,
press against her for warmth.
She pushes away,
plunges deep beyond,
swims under me,
cradles my back in her palms,
lifts me to the air
so I float on her fingertips.
Her hands move gently
touching my shoulder and thigh,
quickening my flesh.
I feel different, immortal.
She kisses my lips quickly,
uncloses my eyes with her tongue.
We don’t say a word
before we reach the point of mooring
before we venture back through tall grass.