Between skin and skin, the distance
is immeasurable, is infinite in each moment--
thick and rich like honey, viscous
in the spare moments, the eternal
and undying moments before
storm, part twoI kissed her--the storm had made me daring.storm, part two by tessuraea
Then the world broke in two
with a noise like splitting wood
or splitting air—which it was--
against my closed eyelids I could see
the forked, bright track of lightning.
It struck a rock so near
I could have run to it in a heartbeat.
She couldn't hear, but I
made her see, and we ran--
I never looked to see if she was behind me
I ran hard and fast while lightning struck on all sides,
through rain too thick for sight,
storm, part oneHis lips were electric; I tastedstorm, part one by tessuraea
ozone, sizzling, sharp in the back of my mouth.
I didn't know why
he broke away, gestured--
the sky had opened into
a world of cold hard rain,
a world without room for any other sound.
I had always loved a gathering storm,
had come to the water with him to watch
clouds darken, to see salt waves
reflect the turmoil in the sky.
"It's green," I said, and
the sky opened above us--
but he was afraid, because a jagged finger
had kissed a rock in the water just there...
He made me understand, and we ran.
We crossed a field of ruined hay;
a tree fell crashing behind us.
I laughed as I ran through waist-high wet grass.
My foot touched the rough-hewn stone step
of his parents' house—safe--
but then I was caught up in sound
too loud and low to hear at all,
my chest hinged open
and the heart inside lost its rhythm
to join the storm's.
I was inside the thunder.
Then I was inside the house,
wet, alive, elated,
not knowing or caring how close
the last one
PrismOncePrism by tessuraea
when I was small
I stepped into a room of captured light,
where colors danced on all the walls
and more bits of glass than I could count
hung in the windows. The plants
drank rainbows; I drank juice
while light was broken all around me.
Big Bad"What big eyes you have, grandmother!" He bitesBig Bad by tessuraea
back a sigh, recites his lines, anticipates indigestion.
The walk home is wet. His pay is heavy
bills in a thick stack--
not good work but honest, who
would tell the tale without the wolf?
His wife and cubs are waiting, warm at home.
Despite the spitting drizzle,
cash a brick in his pocket,
his feet whisk him
swiftly down a different street--
careful, unseen, ears pricked--
to the shabby door with its worn sign and collection slot:
"Widows and Orphans" in faded grey,
made shiny by the rain.