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"Homecoming"
by Amy Cunningham
"Bread and honey;
plums, not yet ripe;
and sage, growing in the earth."
You tell me this the night you return from the business trip.
I wonder how a man so entrenched in making money
could understand the value of a scent.
I smell the airplane smell on you,
the scent of other people on your collar,
and that industrial detergent from the hotel sheets
which always smell like new socks and plastic.
I catch the hint of scotch and cold lemon on your breath
as you kiss away the miles from your mind.
Your kisses mimic the spark and safety of our home life;
your nose searches for a spot beneath my jaw line on my neck;
your hands smell like ink and fresh paper;
you caress my temple, and, for the first time in years,
look directly into my eyes.
I turn away!
You breathe deeply in my brown hair and say,
"Bread and honey;
plums, not yet ripe;
and sage, growing in the earth."
Your suitcases lie in a heap at the foot of the bed
mouths agape, ties lolling out like tongues.
Amy Cunningham was born in Cincinnati, Ohio. She graduated with a B.L.A. from Bowling Green State University with emphases in Creative Writing, Philosophy and Political Science in 1989. She is currently working for her Masters: Tom, Bridget, Kelly, Aggie and Dog Biscuit in a tall gray house with a wraparound porch.
by Amy Cunningham
"Bread and honey;
plums, not yet ripe;
and sage, growing in the earth."
You tell me this the night you return from the business trip.
I wonder how a man so entrenched in making money
could understand the value of a scent.
I smell the airplane smell on you,
the scent of other people on your collar,
and that industrial detergent from the hotel sheets
which always smell like new socks and plastic.
I catch the hint of scotch and cold lemon on your breath
as you kiss away the miles from your mind.
Your kisses mimic the spark and safety of our home life;
your nose searches for a spot beneath my jaw line on my neck;
your hands smell like ink and fresh paper;
you caress my temple, and, for the first time in years,
look directly into my eyes.
I turn away!
You breathe deeply in my brown hair and say,
"Bread and honey;
plums, not yet ripe;
and sage, growing in the earth."
Your suitcases lie in a heap at the foot of the bed
mouths agape, ties lolling out like tongues.
Amy Cunningham was born in Cincinnati, Ohio. She graduated with a B.L.A. from Bowling Green State University with emphases in Creative Writing, Philosophy and Political Science in 1989. She is currently working for her Masters: Tom, Bridget, Kelly, Aggie and Dog Biscuit in a tall gray house with a wraparound porch.
posted by Faulty Mindbomb at 6:13 AM
7 Comments:
Loved the voice and images in this. Amy has one of the strongest and most unique voices around. It's a pleasure to find her here.
Beautiful poetry full of homecoming and simple wonders.
Honest and beautiful. Truth always tastes good.
'the scent of other people on your collar'
this is a fav line from this poem i read of yours before.
good lines stick with you.
Amy's poetry is always very refreshing and honest. I haven't seen a bad one yet.
Amy's poetry is always awesome and brings vivid images
I love Amy's poems... (no, she didn't pay me to say that, and no, I'm not her mother!)
They're not only aesthetically pleasing, but they're sharp, they wrestle and writhe, and contain plenty of sap. They nearly always touch me, sometimes make me smile, sometimes trigger tears, but always leave me with something to think about.
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