there are
wide-eyed whiskey
truths that trace
velocities, backward. this
was never about you,
the unfrozen intensity
of a moment stretched
into a night, a pair
of nights, sub-
aqueous drownings
in a river that knows too
many mornings,
inconstancy of under-
current winter
horizons & jagged
edges below the smooth
dark of summer waters;; an
itch inside my skin i
bury deeper with each
rasping handful of you
and that the sunlight won’t re-
wind; this,
this was never about you ex-
cept that it is.
Joanna Suzanne Lee 
There is wonderful depth to this piece. Great portrait of resistance.
thanks, Carl. 🙂
Wow. This is one of the best poems I’ve read in a long time. Nicely done , beautifully said.
Amy
aww, wow, Amy; you’re too kind! appreciate your stopping by. 🙂
Reblogged this on Exposed and commented:
Cancel my like–I love this.
😉 Thanks for the shout-out, Shea!
in a river that knows too
many mornings,
I think mournings works here too
Carl, i thought about that too, about doing my old trick with the “mo(u)rning” to give the double meaning, but decided against it for some reason. not really sure why– maybe subconsciously afraid to give it too much of a funereal feel?
Really liked this, especially how you shift from abstractions in nature to your personal skin. Well done indeed.
Great poem. The gut sense of things put in words: rasping handful of you. Excellent.
nice…great joanna….this was never about you but it was…and all the grit in between…some really sweet lines in there as well….felt piece…
Two things I especially like about this one are how it’s written in the form of an address and how you’ve used enjambment to “drag” us through the poem.
Beautiful movement here, Joanna. Space for each well-chosen word to be felt before being drawn into the current. Wonderful.
Nice… Love the ending 🙂
twisty and mystery – love it!
Now, there is always the chance that I mistook magic for the swirling addictive nature of hard core self-punishment, but reading through 5 or 6 of your latest, I completely freaked out about this. Holy fuck can you write or can you write? Now, I’m pretty sure you wove this one tighter than a new spring fresh from the factory but again; holy shit this is magic in a pill… er, I mean poem. I so love the desperation inherent in the moment that plays out against the narrative.
(15 minutes & 10 feet closer to insanity)
& It stands up to the re-reading test. I’m pretty convinced this poem is worthy of a gold star. Great fucking job my friend.
TA