April Michelle Wolverton Poems

An angel caught behind the glass,
sweetness viciously attacking the tongue.

You were the great divide,
...

Our existence,
the one of he and I,
is only but a vocal aneurysm-
a harmony in discord.
...

Tremble...
only to reveal
that everything is so perfectly hidden...
and so wonderfully covered
...

We, the soft bodies,
are made to rotate upon the stick-
to brown evenly,
until each angle,
fries crisp and neat.
...

I have never loved,
as a woman should love.
I have always been wait-wait-waiting,
never chasing the train,
...

I gently collected his body,
turning him, nuturing him,
upon my leaves. (And he did leave,)
...

Two conscious lovers
can not be held in such regard-
for fickle-ness is but a Red Herring,
wading as indiscreetly as we.
...

Curses, the Assailant does bereave,
slandering the resonance of sound
that will only disordinate the glass.
...

You worry too much, my Lamb,
with your baa-baa's and
curly snub of tail, bent and
huddled between these humbled thighs.
...

Oh, Magdalene! How
slight it is, your stutter, as you
kneel before his irreverent feet.
...