POETRY BY ALEDA BLISS

Updated: Aug 15, 2019

snow white, rose red


you are mine and i am yours


we were fleshed in the same womb, 

                                         weren’t we? 

i know how water feels to you. 

we are the same, girl. our hunger

is the same, 

                                         isn’t it?



he comes lumbering over the hill

the great bulk of him

looking for

honey

smelling me out

scoops the girlhood

from the corners of my eyes

elbows shinbones clavicle ear

his hands row me down

to a song i heard once

from the miller’s

daughter


palm on my throat

teeth on my hem,

seeking me out

in my every waiting place



the bed beside me is leaking

your body sticky with honey you slip in

late night after night

i am treading alone

and still you speak

nothing

but you hands are not the same

and the twist of your arms in the new white dress

full of subtle tricks

i haven’t yet learned

how long has it been there

that place in your throat?

his eyes on you

there

his tongue lingers

there

and you turn your new neck

smiling

away



there's no space between us, 

                                       is there, my girl? 

no space that a tremble could swallow up 


whole.


R.H. Quaytman, Chapter 24.


spell


beneath the surface i see

something transcendent in silk

and no i will not give myself up

for lent

i want light

and to dance. i want to kiss

him on the mouth. i mean you

to begin with

you kiss me

where it counts. shaking the dead

skin shifting

the shit sifting

what never was mine

to begin with

there are oceans

in my stomach and we talk a lot in space.

you are driving the car and i am choosing

the song. i don’t know what comes next.

my feet hanging out the window.

there are only finite letters

for the way in which

i ____ you.



R.H.Quaytman, +x, Chapter 34.


when the body 


walks into this room here, this bare room and sits down in a wooden chair.

sits down across from you, clears your throat, un-wrinkles your tongue.


what happens between two people? 

to the other.                 are you other? 

to account for it. a row of teeth. the same, with different names.


blue, blue, it used to be blue. endless, an ocean,

what happens in the dark. 


that day we couldn’t let each other look the other in the eye.

after, or before. two bellies held like spoons 


what happens in the dark? 

un withering, we die 


is that how it happens?                 all falls,

the hand, a ballast. 


we do not recover. 

                                                    

  the site of such a face


describe the color yellow, without describing anything yellow

describe the color green                    only using your teeth 


you do not have a sum for it, no space before or after. 


inside all these years, i still see you, in the dark.




Aleda Bliss is an actress and a poet. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.


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