Friday Love Poems: Amanda Mathews!

In This Room

My darlin’ I won’t lie to you,
there are still chasms of dense black
within my chest,
your restless palms may wander there but
they’ll have to find their own way home.
Your fingers may catch
in a thicket of stitches,
bring scissors, work
your way through.

If I tell you
there are parts of me still fast asleep
beneath this dress,
come wake them.
Tear silk from seams
wrap them in finer things
like warmed breath tea from lips,
or the soft tremble
of needing bones.

My darlin’ I won’t lie to you,
I won’t be happy
until my feet
are left swollen
from this dance,
this room
a dizzy spin,
my mouth
sung empty
of song.

These Arms of Mine

It is a hot, thick soup
this lonely,
clings to skin like lips should,
and fuck if those eyes
aren’t tomorrow’s promise of bluer skies,
those whispered sighs the parachute kisses
of escape,
retreat into him, into the shadowed shallows of arms &
swelled thighs entwined with sinew of muscle,
moving
in the slow, sink, swim
of bended bodies beneath sheets.
His name bitten in
to the slick of your lips
like lyrics to a song you swear you've never heard
but just can’t seem
to forget.

AMANDA MATHEWS resides in Astoria, NY. She writes poetry in between molding clay, painting curvy women and illustrating books of poetry for fellow writers. Friday nights she can be found perched at the end of the bar at the Nuyorican Café sketching poets on stage. If you feed her wine, she probably won’t bite, ahem probably.