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Monday, September 13, 2010

Safari

Not Really This Kind of Safari.  The Perfume Kind













Safari
My momma smells of Safari.
Since I was too small to see above the drawers,
She kept it in a tiny, shiny, crystal bottle
with a tortoise shell cap,
up on the center of her dresser,
not tucked away like most treasures.
I remember sniffing her clothes
when I went to hang and fold, my chores;
A satin and gossamer beige slip
that sparkles just like champagne,
in the low yellow lamplight of her room.
I fold and hang and sniff and rub
against my cheek the silken fabric,
consoling as my momma's soft bosom,
where she holds me when I am upset.
Safari embraces me like a down comforter
baked into a Dutch Apple Pie.
Every broken toy, every failed test,
every love lost, every late bill,
melt and burn away like candle wax.
My momma's velvet voice vibrates
deep from the heart beneath my ears, rumbling
against the clammy, dampness of my face,
and more than I can hear her, I feel her,
telling me that which lays bloody all of life's
green, razor scaled, 40 foot, fire breathing dragons.
She says simply, “I love you.”
I fill my lungs with her and exhale,
“I love you, too, Momma.”

copyright September 12, 2010 by Faith Davis

Can you see the images?  After reading this are there any images that stand out more than others?  Let me know what you think.  Comment Below:

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