when you play

On the ground
in its case – perhaps a coffin
a thing of beauty, shining
glassy body, cold
yet of course beautiful.

A thing made of wood,
metal, shell

and when lifted
I take it into my lap
as a bewildering celestial thing
slightly awkward – no, it is
perfect, and I
am awkward around it.

when you wrap your arms
into her wooden curves
she is no longer wooden.
A heart beats there.
There is breath.
Her neck adores your fingers
your body is not separate.
Together you create music,
make music, make love
and everything about it – her –
is alive.

a beating heart, I swear,
lies beneath the wood

when you play

October ’05


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This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x





All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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