I don’t really like poetry, but I do love my son’s. He’s in competition with me on who gets published first. He’s winning. I can’t believe I grew this child, and his sister. By far, my most creative work.
Here’s his latest piece:
pankmagazine.com, although I like his revised piece more:
Rub the ridges of my neck like Braille, so you can read the words my mouth can’t speak.
Count the little bones in my fingers like they are beads on an abacus, calculating some long lost touch.
Press your lips to mine, and my closed eyes are a kaleidoscope.
In Genesis, to make love is to know. Try and kiss me like you don’t.