In the Middle of Analysis
In the middle of the night
in the middle of a shared pandemic
I lay on my back not falling to pieces
in the middle of the clay-pans
in the middle of three-ways
I am falling into peace
concealing my eyes in the middle of rapture
inhaling their Requiem of silence in D Minor
I frolic in the middle of denial
if it pleases the jury of midnight recovery
and all that glitters is not quite sold
I crave the cravings of my Jewish lover
her middle-finger figure-skating around
the outskirt of my arching sovereign mouth
over there, where — against the rocks of
somebody else’s songlines
she and her gather well-heeled
in the middle of an open fire-engine-red
chaise longue
pressing if we must
into scalloped watercolours
dividing rehearsals all over again,
and again, and again
in the middle of a raftless desert-sea
I catch a fallen star from the ankle of
a petulant Milky Way
placing it firmly inside
my lover’s middle pocket
in the middle of nowhere
yet someone else’s somewhere
remunerating each other’s
unravelling limbs in dialogue
for spare body parts
suddenly, in the middle of the most
unordinary stanza
I choose to release her Hebrew stare
in the middle of a shared odyssey
halfway through mid-sentence
syphoning the foam
between Scylla and Charybdis
ego aside
my therapist survives
whilst I, the sometime poet
by the bye return to my lovers’
unpublished womb
Eel-ongated
Winter’s dilletante stampedes lake
eels jasmine into poets
unwinding laneways
overlap lipped algae
in full costume:;
bottlebrush and
sweet mock orange
ignite all apostrophes,
leafing tally-ho ‘ash:;
café curtains masque
with symbolic allegory:;
side-gates resurrect into
thirty-pieces of frozen silver:;
footprints wodge into
tiles of shoebox ice:;
beating beneath a rindless brunet surface
unmetered syllables erupt with inferno:;
`ēel
lengthened, ravenous, librettists
two jaws, one true heart, no scales
disembarking bees
on the first day of spring;
in the earliest possible hour
rain will mizzle;
——————————————–
tapping at your window
an empty flask
full of chutzpah
roaming russet eyes
and a wandering chin;
————————————————-
boney candles will whistle you
from down the hallway;
you will rise,
like September honeycomb
oh, how you shall rise
for.
you.
/ I will sting;
Yvette Henry Holt, an occasional poet.
