The Hot Place



You make me dream

Antique things.

Fans, heat, and feathers

All around your years.

I can’t get you off my head.

Your hands are in my mouth.

Your eyes in my stomach.

You weave your twigs and leaves

In my hair.

And I can’t leave you.

So tired I could drown,

But your hands are holding me up.


How do you do that?

Work your magic under my spine,

And moss under my head;

And grass is my home

Among the vines.

Can intrigue really last

A century or two?

You are so cotton,

I am not prepared

To talk to you most days.

Yet the conversations never stop.

And go deeper

Like a steel tip

Of a pen

Into ink.

-lisa king, 2004