Poetry Issue 11

   Issue # 11: January-June 2009

Haines Eason



A Laying On of Hands


      Clenching, my lover feels a darkness coming, like bone
      scraping bone. A furtive moan fills the blighted stranger

      within this curse. A stranger course of events
      comes to nightly pass, past darkened furniture he

      seeks in night bankrupt prescriptions : doctors plying him
      with cocktails. He a man who in mirror measures, strangles

      life from lemony, bilious flavors, other garnishments.
      Shuffling back, he grips the lamps shut, drags my shadow

      over his, curls tight around the sore. Pretending it away,
      my kneading touch drives down these darker hues,

      out his groaning self, sweating back into a pale
      remembrance of healthy flesh. Knots beneath,

      tumescent, refigure as muscles, and unclamp. Stored
      sickness in current dims, molten. Hush his blazing core.