Poetry / My Lover
She got a voice like a freight train
Running cars from Detroit
Through a cornfield
With the moon telling secrets
To the tenderloin dusk
And my Lover
She got a voice like the down bound elevator
On the sears tower, bring it down low a hundred floors
In nothing flat
To the backbeat of the Chicago streets
And the lunchtime whistle of the stockyard
And my lover
She got a voice like the cane pickers hand
Brown sweet and warm hard
Working through the straw boss sun
You work your whole life
For rum on someone else’s table
And my lover
She got the voice of the heron
Hidden in the reeds
She got the voice of the falcon
Swooping to the river
She got the voice of the crane
Calling for her tribe
And my lover
She got the sweet hot coffee voice
She got that mountain shine whiskey voice
She got the cask-aged cedar smoked
Don’t let it out of the cage
Kinda voice
And when she talk to me
It make my skin all hot
And when she sing to me
It make my cock get hard
And when she love me with that voice
They ain’t no other place for me
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Good Lordy man!
frieght trains and tenderloin dusk?
you do write crazy shit that hits my stunned deer with the brilliance of your headlight eyes.
It is dynamicly forceful, your line “It make my cock get hard” this brings all the cerebral down and ground it in that ruby red primal chakra.
I get a full-body experience with this poem: heart, head, throat, gut, crotch.
Bravo
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Remind yourself why you love her? I think the whole world knows now. In fact, if I leaned that way, I might love her a little myself.
Wow, what an awesome love story/poem/song. You should set this to music and sing it from the top of tall buildings.
I love this quirky, off-beat, rhythmic love song but then I’m a sucker for poems that talk about the realities as well as the raptures of relationships. I can imagine it being sung over the top of a beaten-up acoustic guitar in some smokey back room. Your raw, tender images evoke the melancholy of living an everyday life while the prayer to your lover’s voice raises up, light and joyful.
It brought to mind Billy Collins’
‘The Litany’ -
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight’ etc.
‘You are the white apron of the baker,
You, in turn, have a great, authentic voice – a rare and precious thing!
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