Free verse in her voice
Purgatory Rising
with the meter of your caress
My body wakes. An aching dove ascends in yawning grasps, steadied in forward motion by the horizon enfolding you, where the scripted moon can’t torture me with the meter of your caress.
Until the dawn encroaches, I can only endure (tease) the darkness until I have become the dew.
Softest, savory, morning dew…
wet with vernacular and the weight of the air. I want to succumb to a nature that would impale me upon blades of you until I rush sweet condensation from tip to base embedded in earth combing the perimeter of your seed for the dormant agapanthus that yearns to blossom from this darkness intent to thrive on the fourteenth pang of morning.
For more poetry by Dionne Charlet, click on the link below. Thank you for reading!
