Converstation

Your words slide
over my ears,
my head,
like the trickle
of molasses
over fresh bread.

Your words soothe
away my tears.
Their tones
caress and move
along my arm
holding not the flesh, but the bones.

Your words change
and center on you.
Your fears
tremble and jump
from broken lips
to my sticky ears.

Your words search
this alien terrain
for sweetness, dew,
on which to feed.
Nothing,
only the semi-sweet after-taste of you.

My words cannot flow.
They are locked
away from your sight,
in the recesses of my mind,
where they battle
to know which is right.

Your words die
along my heart.
Their echoes sound
like specters, quiet, gone.
My soul attempts to join
those hidden words, unfound.

A. Popp
1992

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