I forgot to mention a prose poem I had published in Doorknobs & BodyPaint’s Issue 59 (August 2010). It was fun little piece to work on.
The theme for the issue was”Hot, August Nights” and one of the guidelines for submission was to use the phrase “spew forth.”
I found an older piece that I had always liked and reworked it:
The robin sits silent in my lap, resting gentle feathers while I play two clear notes, like drops of rain on dandelions. I close my eyes, and deep within the acrid, crackling hearth smells are sage, thyme, marjoram, yarrow. Around me, roots throb under moist soil; rabbits run in rhythmic hops; bushes rustle like chimes in winter; flowers quiver, their blossoms bursting. The heartbeat of this forest is mine, an undertone of breath and wind and pulsing beats beneath the greenery.
All sound catches in my throat when I see you, and I pull the pipes away. My tongue runs like the stream across my lips.
You step closer. I run my hand through gnarled hair, watching leaves fall. With quickened breaths, I lift my pipes again, my playing fiercer. I ache to taste salty tears gleaned in the flushed hollow of your young neck.
I wait for a scream to spew forth and shatter my delicate opus; but you step toward me, and I am lost. Like the autumn winds, I toss off your frocks in a frenzied dust devil, crawl under your skin, and search for the rhythm of your own dark woods. I feast upon the song that fuels the fire in your eyes until all that is left is an echo, and your skin falls into feathers on the wind.