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Origami Moonlight: Collected Love Poems of Paul Hina 2009-2012

Page 3

by Paul Hina

chorus of confusion as heart

  strings unravelled all around me,

  and i can imagine your fingers reaching

  for my fingers,

  your face—your stilted sweetness of breath—

  hovering near my face, feeling the faint

  praise of my trembling like fall's last leaf

  27

  she is a stunning shine

  in the sunlight,

  waiting for me,

  holding my arrival

  in the mouth

  of her smile

  like a snowdrop

  or a birdsong,

  and her kisses

  plant daisies

  on my tongue

  like a remembered spring

  —somewhere younger

  than now,

  somewhere small and

  secretly private

  where we can intertwine

  our bodies

  without a care

  for the conniving clouds

  28

  the femininity drips from her legs

  like the sweetest honey, and she knows

  she is desired,

  and so she folds her body up

  into these tiny packages of feigned fragility—

  blond hair lounging down her neck,

  legs crossed near the knee,

  ankle swiveling with an easiness only

  a woman knows,

  and he imagines her thighs opening like

  a gift, bows wrapped around the flesh on

  each side, pulling at the teeth of winter's

  contempt

  29

  her dark eyes envelop me with their sharpness,

  the edges dive and turn and are subtly exotic

  — almost asian—

  and her black hair is like wet feathers of dark

  water floating down her flesh like echoes of

  other birds shimmering from within, emanating

  from her inherited grace,

  and her smile holds firmly behind her face

  —a tangle of tacit joy— waiting to emerge like

  flowers hiding beneath the cold winter soil,

  barely suppressing her booms of blooms

  30

  she won't remember the way she used

  to twist her face,

  the way she used to carry flowers in

  her hands("just because")

  and she won't remember the power of her

  femininity

  as the years pass and she forgets more

  and more of these things—

  things that keep us young and hungry for

  kisses—and she will

  eventually

  lose her grace,

  her fragility will grow, and she'll become a

  desert of a woman,

  not remembering the birds or their songs,

  not wanting to hold a cup of rain in her

  hands("just because")

  anymore

  31

  her quizzes of eyes

  twist and turn around me,

  her hands travel nervously

  over pages of books

  feeling for pretenders

  of love,

  she stretches her tender fingers

  across the poems that play

  in her imagination

  as she shushes

  out all the conversation

  and just listens

  to the songs her mind makes

  when her thoughts

  are naked with me,

  and her hands hold

  every piece of the poems

  that never hesitate,

  always tasting the fruit

  of each ripe word,

  letting each thick drop drip

  down our shivers of skin

  32

  the trees are bursting and breathing,

  popping with color and promise,

  and the sun peeks in

  and then hides

  like some sleepy child—

  splashes the daytime darknesses

  with sundrops of earth

 

  and these days

  —these great drinks of newest life—

  make memories uncrack in the heart,

  and these cracks show smiles,

  sun drenched legs

  stretching out in the sun,

  her hands painting my naked arm

  with goosebumps and fingers,

  her lips, a whisper across my face,

  her eyes, a stream rolling over my body,

  and what's left is the blooms

  of something once forgotten,

  but never quite gone

  33

  she spins in a whirlwind

  of her own smile,

  pressing a clenched fist

  to her breast,

  a kiss hiding in her hand,

  a bloom to carry for the day,

  a delicate reminder of why

  her gut twirls and flies

  at the very thought of his face,

  why her heart soars

  at the mere thought

  of his voice

  saying her name,

  and when she whispers for him,

  tears come to her eyes

  and the blur colors the world

  with the technicolor brush

  of falling in love

  under the perfect shadow

  of spring's canopy

  34

  she startles the scene

  by putting a flower in her

  hair,

  a big, white Billie Holiday

  flower that soothes the soul

  with slippery fingers,

  and she holds my heart with her

  healing hands, massages fantasies

  of songs where dew drops emanate

  from the kisses on her lips

  —fully in bloom

  35

  she's tall and lovely when she walks,

  and the moonlight on her shoulders runs

  down her arms with a sleepy blue glow

  that'll light my way through future

  dreams,

  and i'll hold those drowsy dwindles of

  her moony world in my hands during

  the lushest days of life,

  and even when struggling through the

  darkest depths, that light will wash over

  me with seas of the subtlest blue foam,

  and she will be my smile, my laugh,

  my voice,

  and the hope of her kiss will rest in the

  palm of my hand, fishing for fingers,

  looking for her silver light to jump

  over my black waters with sparks of

  moonlit rain

  36

  i travel the course of you again,

  looking for new lines to travel

  with nerves of fingers, with hope

  in my hands, quivers on my lips,

  waiting to find you under the surface

  of these miles of memory, shuffling

  through the paper of old days, trying

  to catch echoes of your voice, the

  texture of your hair, the scent of your

  skin

  (and there is something like the stutter

  of spring rain, hesitating over the water

  long enough to lick the light off the squirms

  of sun on the sea, a subtle second of pure

  joy in the arms of the warmest reason to

  fall,

  to leap for you)

  37

  the sweet, sticky smell of spring

  stains her skin, and the tulips of her

  cheeks surely taste like april's

  dampest secrets,

  but i'll never know the cool color of

  her kiss, or the sound my mind might


  make if her hair hung over my face,

  whispering water,

  and i'll never feel the weight of her

  body baptizing my bones with the

  grace of the rain her fingers make as

  they dance over my face and shoulders,

  making sparks as the showers shake

  away her petals, crack open the candy

  shine of her form to let her lovely

  snowdrops make wishes on my flesh

  38

  she is a shell of a memory,

  an echo of a song

  stretched so thin

  its lyrics are muffles,

  and her touches are fades of tingles,

  her kisses close,

  yet tangled

  by the tired tendrils of time,

  but her face is still

  a stain on my heart,

  and her hair is a hush that blows

  across my fingers from time to time,

  bringing with it her wind,

  her breath washing over me

  like love's last lyric

  singing streams through my dreams

  —the dance of the water,

  the subtle stillness on the trees—

  and the peace within

  is what waits for her,

  wakes up all the whimsy

  in the wisps of my sleep

  39

  the way she moves is a flicker

  across the window of the mind,

  a sway i still catch shadows of

  when i'm drifting into the sea

  of sleep,

  and the dance of her hips, those lazy

  lines lounging into legs can easily

  still wrap themselves around my body,

  but the lights of dreams just aren't

  bright enough to clarify her,

  and her moonlight is only the melody

  over a dream, a song that soars when

  kisses are as spinningly delirious as

  counting the stars from the tornado

  of her dizzy, distant tendernesses

  40

  i've been waiting to hear your

  voice again, stuck on a single

  sound i've held, skipping like

  some old record, a song i want

  to play until i can memorize the

  sweet noise of its layers, its lilts

  and its hums, until it paints its

  color on my heart,

  i want to touch you with knowing

  hands, travel those beautiful slopes

  and bumps of your body with fingers

  sensitive to learning,

  i want to feel your breath teach me

  what's right and what's wrong when

  we meet to play at night, bathed in

  moons, spinning with the stars on our

  sexual stutters of somewhere songs

  41

  the lace

  curls around her chest

  like some lovely,

  resting animal,

  and she runs her fingers

  across its edge,

  bites her lip

  and he knows no softness

  like the snow

  that lies atop her skin,

  written in lace,

  and the air around her

  is better than

  the silent breath

  of the stars she's left

  on my lips

  from her cunning crush

  of slushy kisses

  42

  i'll bet she's dancing today,

  in the rain,

  watching flowers from wish's window,

  making mischief in the clouds,

  contriving love songs from the skitters

  of a storm,

  washing her mind in the memory

  of my most remember-me-kiss,

  and there are as many mysteries

  written on her

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