Sunday, September 20, 2009

an evening in september





























the dusk seizes nothing in it's moth
mouth. dark ink tipped trees
collect birds, shake them gently
out of their dusty heads.

i am spinning, my feet are flat.
i cannot hear anything but traffic
the noise haunts me: i gut-ache for bird
song, water falling, leaves masturbating.

the ground thrums with horns, tire
tread. i lean into my dogs thick head
and breathe his fur, his skin. something
organic blooms, i open a window:

i cannot hear anything but traffic.
the computer blinks it's insomniac eye,
i slip from the sunroom to the backyard
at dusk- like a teenager, like a child,

press my face into the paltry grasses,
fecund dirt, a small beetle waves-
i think this neighborhood is so friendly
slip a pocket of dirt into my lip like chew.

the sun lets it's orgasm reach a pink frenzy,
i am undulating between the black night
inside this grass and this dirt
and the bright eruption of universe

that settles easily into afterglow.
i cannot hear anything but traffic.
i think this is why i am crying,
and eating dirt, lying in the dark

wet mouth of an evening in September.

maggie may ethridge
Laoch of Chicago said...

Evocative

the real mia said...

This is stunning. I can see it and taste it and almost feel it on my skin. Amazing.

The Wanderers' Daughter said...

Lovely writing! Glad to find myself here.
love from a fellow endometriosis survivor (oh yeah, every single month)

nfmgirl said...

Wow!

Captain Dumbass said...

"Wet mouth of an evening." Awesome.

yolanda said...

i love this poem. month mouth mother always haunting me.
i love
everything!!!!!
lots of love to you, dearling
yolanda lola

starrlife said...

I'm there -how wonderful!

katiecrackernuts said...

The anthology must be published. Do you have a publisher?

Ocean Girl said...

Hi & wow! How can we know the dancer from the dance.

Beth said...

In childhood, there were other worlds to be found in the grass, in the dirt. And they were beautiful.
(So is this poem.)

Miss Grace said...

The photo and the words are both lovely.

yolanda said...

month mouth moth mother, mode, dove...

Phoenix said...

"I cannot hear anything but traffic" - yeah, girl. I get you. I get it.

Petula said...

Wow. It's entrancing!

Petit fleur said...

Your words bring to mind gymnasts dancing and acrobating with ribbons.

But there is something else too... something something something... that something that can't be caught or deciphered, just a feeling.

You're magnificent.
xoxo pf

Pretty Little Pictures said...

so beautiful.

Ms. Moon said...

I want to take you to my creek, let you listen to nothing but birds sing and water tremble across logs.
You could kneel and drink the tea-colored water. Your mouth would be wet with it, your heart would be happy.
Beautiful poem, dear Maggie.

krista said...

is that your photo? it's so damn captivating. not that your words aren't, but you already know i'm in love with your words...

Lydia said...

"leaves masturbating" describes perfectly the sound of our Aspen tree in the side yard. And the bit about taking the dirt into your lip like chew has got to be one of the most descriptive, wonderfully-earthy things ever written by anyone. My oh my, this could be the last poem I ever read and I would be satisfied.....

just making my way said...

Beautiful. The words and the picture. Love them.

Katrine said...

i love your words

Woman in a Window said...

i can't tell you how this speaks to me
all but the traffic.
just no traffic here.
two cars.
but dirt and sky and whirl. yes.

Shaista said...

I am listening to you read this aloud in my mind. Your folks are really lucky they get to hear the poet chew the words like sweet innocent cud in her moth mouth thrumming horning blooming blinking into her pink frenzy. But not crying or lying - we are here. And the dirt was true and sweeter shared.
Have our birdsong - Dad's been trying to learn the birdsong variations from a cd but "Let's face it," he says, "They all sound the same to me!" :)

modaspia said...

not to sound crass but why aren't you famous yet?!
so beautiful...you're my favorite poet maggie.
maybe move out to the country some day if you can swing it..it's a sweet life.

Des said...

Such an excellent poem. Actually, your blog is a great read too.

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