JOANN LIU

The Poetry Of..
Joann Liu..........................................................

One Indian Summer.

number one.
... we don't even know the meaning of love.
number two.
... even if we did, we don't know how to use it.

the cold is damp
and my knuckles are sore,
slathered with months of an indian summer.

deeper and deeper we dig.
i don't think we'll stop
until the flesh on our hands bleeds off
and dirties the floor.

i am throwing up my heart,
the orange streetlights are turning off,
his skinny body haunts my memories.

number three.
... sometimes when i'm falling asleep i hear folk songs and think of him.
number four.
... then i remember how horrible it feels to cry.

I need something durable
just to busy my hands.

i tell him to watch the paper leaves
as the wind blows and tosses them every which way,
and then i turn my back.

silence.
he stares.
silence.
i play with my hair.
silence.
he asks me how my day was.

number five.
... i think i will scream until my throat bleeds if i ever have to say to him "fine. how was
yours?" one more time.
number six.
... i wish he never existed.

friday night blues
and then i remember
the dull sensation of dry lips.

how do i kiss him again?
do i wrap my arms around his waist?
do i run my fingers through his curls?

we've danced this dance.
i see the moon and she tells me to walk away.

i don't have control.

number seven.
... i do not know if i deserve him. (do i love him?)
number eight.
... i do not know if he deserves me. (do i love him enough?)

number nine.
... we don't even know the meaning of love.
number ten.
... even if we did, we don't know how to use it.

notes: my first lover.

... i'd discovered real organic pleasure
at a young age,
daring to pioneer places beneath my skirt's linen fabric and
feeling things i didn't know how to describe.
becoming an addict was not hard and
i quickly found that i could deliver to myself some of the most overpowering experiences
felt by
any woman.
my fingers know what i want and
my body tells me how to breathe and
my hair sprawled across my soft plush pillow
sweeps over my bliss and smile, telling me not to stop.
skin turns silk and pink,
drenched in aches and ecstasy.
... there's a power in knowing that
i control myself,
... knowing that i can make myself writhe in sweat and delve in dipping the tip of a finger
into a warm ocean
of senses.

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