Poetry
and then
we have a red
maple growing
beside a white
oak, he said,
bowing his head
as lovers
often do
when going to bed,
autumn’s scent
really meant
for growing boys
in corduroys
and birds and bees
and dirty knees.
i could say
i wildflowered,
though the image
may be feminine,
it catches the power
when i devoured
the thoughts
he fed me
in a single hour—
the length
and strength
of the day
carried away
summer’s being
and everything.
© 2012 John Medeiros. All rights reserved.
Click here to read the poem in its original formatting.
MORE WRITING
Nonfiction
Gods and Mortals
You see them sitting on the patios of the restaurants that adorn 17th Street here in Dupont Circle, strewn in masses of muscle and cologne.
READ IT →
Poetry
song for the living
the umbra
of whatever it is that is left
when love no longer breathes.
of whatever it is that is left
when love no longer breathes.
READ IT →
Nonfiction
How to Love a Poz Man
They will not tell you that he has learned out of lacking what it means to fully receive.
READ IT →