Category: Poetry

The Women

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The women

are made of

heaven’s ruby lips

and honey-colored stares–

——–They are

those

chills

that prickle covered arms

 in the brisk night air-

and

——— those

mysterious

flirtations

that  warm dead fingers

with the electricity

of

promise.

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but deep

in the bones of their pretty feet

—–deep

in the pits

of their brown bellies

is a passion sickened

and pale.

-Too old and beaten

to come

to life

for me.

-Angie Hoover -Hillhouse

What I’ve got they used to call the Blues

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the spirit of her

chaste

young

body

rests behind my slanted eyes—

a geisha

with

porcelain skin

and a heart painted onto

her

voiceless mouth.–

so graceful

as she

dances with paper fans

in silky robes.

—sleep —

—sleep—

For I am strong.

A woman

with feet unbound.

Legs bare

hands free.

And she

is

–a face

weak

and wading

in the milky water

Sunday Morning by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork: The Porcelain Mist by Elle Hanley Photography

The Last night.

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When she vanished

-for the first time-

-for the last time-

I  could not help but swallow a chalky lump

of relief.

And I’m not sure how it happened but

now I am

 engulfed in a

soapy rose–

that dribbles

into my mouth

in  spindly Ribbons.

It burrows in my ears

and toes

 in rumpled gobs that whisper

and whoop

until

 there is a

A fog inside

that I cannot

undream

“Lady in Waiting” by Angie Hoover Hillhouse

Artwork: Lost in the World by Filmout