Mists without a Gist

What was that mist
that frost kissed
air where you touch
the exo-soul
and hairs rose
up to hold
indiscernible
pin droplets
that stab without
penetrating
any depth
in essence
or presence

that obscure eminence
amorphous atmosphere
vials of voluminous
sound, found abstruse
as your own voice
seeing you project
yourself from
somewhere else
ambiguous as
the mist that
never touches

ground.

Image By Fabio Cipolla (1854-1924), The Maidens in the Mist [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Does a body good

I was not born a child.

Strange. I was allergic to all milk.
I was openly resented for this
Growing up.
My bones are stronger for this.
Never broken one.
I don’t drink it.

I was raised as an orphan in my family.

I was taken in, hosted, taunted and cast out.
I was not like any other. I was an only child,
a broken mold.

Bearing no resemblance. A reassurance,
that nothing contagious was mixed in the kool-aid.

I was ugly, I was sexy, I was young, I was powerful,
I was smarter than most, I was curious and sensitive
I was giving and giving and gave it all away.

I lied. I faked it. I made and lost it.

I was nothing until I redeemed what
I was worth and after taxes,
it was not equitable to fulfilled.

Half-full and half-cocked.

This fair skin is not thin.
I have grown vicious through exposure
and ferment my sugars.

I have soured and forgotten too often
before I remember, I am

Lactose intolerant and hormone infected.

(But as far as childhood dreams go-
I do like the new milk commercial on TV).



Painting by Harold Gilman, 1918 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.