For as long as I can remember, I have been writing poetry. I think it started in third grade, when we were learning about limericks, and then really blew up when in fifth grade we read Edgar Allan Poe’s “Annabelle Lee.” I remember rewriting the entire poem about Motley Crue’s drummer Tommy Lee and turning it into my teacher. She actually teared up. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure that was a good thing, but she did give me extra credit! 
Nectar
I drink you
like nectar
resting in the
cup of a flower
mouth to mouth
skin to skin
we dance around
obstacles, shedding
fabric like
a snake sheds
its skin
then wrap together
like crawling vines
reaching toward
the sun.
_____________
Dawdling Sun
Empty morning,
too much bed.
Wrapped in cold warmth
and the last fragments
of a quiet dream
still linger.
It’s five.
The sun dawdles,
but soon
it will claw
away the last
remnants of
this darkness.
_____________
Whole
In the lion’s jaws
this lamb lies still
bent neck, bleeding
all fear receding
as he lopes off
away from the pride
finding some dark
secluded place to hide
where he can lap at her wounds
until saliva mends the skin
and she is whole again.
_____________
The Sea
Waves rush in against the cliffs:
that is the crushing breathlessness of you.
Three gulls circle overhead, little spies
that carry pieces of me away in their cries.
I am nothing but the spray of rain on stone,
an essence of color, refracted light.
Breathe in all the mist that is left of me,
and carry me back out with you to sea.
_____________
Numbered
Every night’s pain
echoes into silent
voices across the void…
She picks up her pen
and tries to capture
it in words, but
there is only the
way it makes her feel:
speechless, but full
replenished, but alone,
as if she’s numbered
every one of her own days
and given them new meaning.
She’s sure that
he would never understand,
so she closes her book
and goes to sleep.
_____________
Matches
What would she say to me
if she were to live
beyond expectation?
Would she say, “Light the
match,” and exhale
smoke in tiny fingers
that dance upon the
wrinkles in her skin?
“My pretty girl, so smart,”
but not smart enough
to outwit her own defeat,
her own indulgences. My
kingdom for a compliment,
my entire world to be
shattered like an old
barn house window.
“Make a wish,” then
she blows out the match.
_____________
It Always Comes Back to This
left arm scarred
cinder-block burn
a scraped escape
one hiding place
to the next
two in a tree
bark-brushed thigh
a chance maneuver
and blood chills
under the wind
love’s agonizing scrutiny
these left-overs
nothing but empty
shells litter the earth
spilled seed pods
scatter with the
same breath
that says goodbye.
_____________
Apollo Rejected
Slowly fan these flames
in attempt to blow them out
yet they burn on,
lapping thirstily at my skin
like tired dogs.
Apollo’s fiery fury, and I blister,
consumed with passion
behind the wavering reality
evaporating with every breath-
to let go, would bring freedom,
but what immunity have I?
Scarred from the inside out
a molten reminder
of incomplete sacrifice-
A god never forgets!
_____________
Reflected
the mirrored reflection of something so yesterday
and yet beyond tomorrow wavers in front of me;
grins, not devouring, but straight and white,
clean and new, with an undercurrent of memory
of that whole time when I gave myself away
to someone that never really wanted me,
but took parts anyway to make himself stronger.
Somewhere, out there, he’s walking around
with more innocence than he deserves and
bits of heart that do him no good.
He wears sheepskin, but cannot hide his teeth.
All poetry on this site is the intellectual property of Jennifer Hudock and may not be used without permission.
