What Is This Thing Called Love?
I bare half my history to you, hands spread wide
to hide stories that should stay buried; sandwiched
screams between pages of sunlight, blood washed into wasted breath,
parts of me stained with dirty fingerprints,
like tattoos, won’t wash clean.
My pleasant thoughts laid carefully on the picnic quilt before you
unfold into bright paper flowers fancy enough
to place, half-open, in dinner jacket lapels at formal functions.
I can be good for you, pure for you,
ignoring the whispers like needles,
panicked dreams of escape.
Editorial comment by Dave Mehler
Holly submitted her needlepoint artwork to us, which we accepted and then challenged her to write a poem to accompany it, and this poem was the result. Holly’s needlepoint first appeared here: http://cahoodaloodaling.com/issue-13-slam-it/.