Halsted M. Bernard

Dri­ving into my nar­rowed gut, your eyes
say noth­ing, read every­thing out of me.
I find your whis­per at my neck
over­whelm­ing. My breath, a gust out of me.

Say noth­ing. Read every­thing. Out of me
you take what you want; your lips are always
over­whelm­ing my breath. A gust out of me
and I reach for you with talons.

You take what you want. Your lips are always
painful to watch when not on my body.
And I reach for you with talons,
with every­thing, but I come up empty.

Painful to watch when not on my body,
dri­ving into my nar­rowed gut, your eyes
with every­thing, but I come up empty.
I find your whis­per at my neck.

© 2002 by Hal­sted M. Bernard
pub­lished in poem mem­oir story Num­ber 4/2004