Poem for Christine
13 July 2008 14:09![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesMy friend Christine is having a birthday on Tuesday and she asked me to write a poem for her. This is what I've come up with so far.
Christine
She opens up like a flower to the moon. She is the thin answer to God’s question. She is put forth on the plank and uses it as a diving board. She bruises easy but heals quickly. She runs with wolves, flies with crows, and swims with sharks.
She’s a grenade wearing her pin as an earring. She is the double-x chromosome that marks the spot. She’s a triple-A treasure chest. She hangs out on clotheslines. She’s a kite. Mirrors can’t find her.
There are memories buried in the rich earth of her. There are farms nestled in the crevasses of her spine, fertile soil ploughed by her shoulder blades. She grows in new directions as life demands like water finding its way around cobblestones.
Christine is a warrior. Her name is a derivative of Christ. The Romans never would have caught her and Judas would have been a faithful slave. She would have lived to be 80, playing with the hair of her apostles and handing out miracles. She knows that the only things that angel wings are good for is stuffing pillows.
She’s hungry in places. She needs at times.
She’s the Cirque de Solace. She’s a left hook and sharp right angle. She is curves in the road. She is a dish best served hot.
She is a pliant sprinter of a woman. She is a breed of one. She is streamlined, a javelin flying into the future, going for a record. Bones wrap around the barely-contained core of her. Sleep struggles to take her.
She is the music after the song has ended.
tags
Christine
She opens up like a flower to the moon. She is the thin answer to God’s question. She is put forth on the plank and uses it as a diving board. She bruises easy but heals quickly. She runs with wolves, flies with crows, and swims with sharks.
She’s a grenade wearing her pin as an earring. She is the double-x chromosome that marks the spot. She’s a triple-A treasure chest. She hangs out on clotheslines. She’s a kite. Mirrors can’t find her.
There are memories buried in the rich earth of her. There are farms nestled in the crevasses of her spine, fertile soil ploughed by her shoulder blades. She grows in new directions as life demands like water finding its way around cobblestones.
Christine is a warrior. Her name is a derivative of Christ. The Romans never would have caught her and Judas would have been a faithful slave. She would have lived to be 80, playing with the hair of her apostles and handing out miracles. She knows that the only things that angel wings are good for is stuffing pillows.
She’s hungry in places. She needs at times.
She’s the Cirque de Solace. She’s a left hook and sharp right angle. She is curves in the road. She is a dish best served hot.
She is a pliant sprinter of a woman. She is a breed of one. She is streamlined, a javelin flying into the future, going for a record. Bones wrap around the barely-contained core of her. Sleep struggles to take her.
She is the music after the song has ended.
tags