Thursday For Sonnetry

I haven't posted my last three sonnets yet... time to rectify that. In reverse chronological order, because I like yesterday's attempt best out of this lot. I titled each poem with the date when it was originally written, but I've made some slight edits since then. (In the interest of full disclosure, I guess?)

11/6/2013

Rabbits kicking out tufts of belly fur--

these two snatch at each other viciously.

Back legs too strong for my heart to endure,

and their quivering breath, so fluttery.

Rabbits fight like witches, their desperate

grunts and twists and the little, little bones.

I wish I could call in an alternate,

a growing ghost: it vanishes and moans.

I can't feed them to each other like this.

Harshly hormonal. Full girl aggression.

Can't tell a bunny to be a good miss,

'cause they're small and under wild conditions.

Their savagery breaks. It breaks up my chest.

Sorcerer ladies in tiny fur vests.

[I agonized over the phonetic repetition of "two"/"too" in the first verse, but I eventually decided it was best to leave it.]

11/5/2013

The warm, soft drag of bed calms my crazy,

even if it can only keep my demons

down for the night. Can't expect more lately.

The perpetual influx of new ones.

I feel the relief of sleep in my eyes.

Un-wakefulness is bliss and it's so near.

My alarm: a blaring morning surprise.

Not allowed to tranquilly stay in here.

Too much un-present euphoria--sleep--

and my daytimes turn dull and grainy grey.

So although I despise that hostile beep,

it keeps the more minor demons away.

I ward against my own mind. It's like hell.

I want to save myself. Can't do it well.

11/4/2013

You are tired. Say it into my hands.

It is okay for two people to melt

together at the shoulders. No demands,

just slippery about the way we felt.

I said "okay"--didn't mention "healthy".

We ignore how our skin is dissolving.

I wish you'd stop telling these things at me.

Who knows what the neighbors are wondering?

You're tired. Use all your breath to say it.

I'll fill you with leftover sentiment.

I am the peach flesh, so you be the pit.

Too red-ripe in an autumn apartment.

It's okay. Break into cliche pieces,

and stop fitting me into your dresses.

[The phrasing of the third line in the second stanza is very intentional, and I'm worried that it seems like a typo?]