Tracee A. Clapper. From Charleston, SC. On a journey to heal myself, and anyone else who crosses my path – I’m a seeker, a mom, a wife, a friend, a birder and a poet. I seek connection with the divine feminine, all of nature, and humans who truly see me and accept me as I am. Writing facilitates the evolution of my soul in a way that nothing else provides.
She’s the seeker but he finds her every time she comes home to him
She leans against the kitchen sink
warm water runs over
her fingers, breezes trickle in
from the window
blow her graying hair,
face, stir the scent of sliced citrus
left out overnight.
The wind on her skin tickles her
memory, brings back last night’s
They have no unspoken
cues to invite flirtation, foreplay —
no silent, half-asleep slipping
into each other;
She’s a survivor, words are a prerequisite
consent is continual –
a movement, flicker of light,
her hair falling at a certain slant over
shakes her out of place and time, down into
spinning spokes of non-sexy thoughts
and her yes’s are snatched away
more quickly than he can blink.
Over decades he’s learned
to wait for her smile to unclench
her voice to nod, her laugh
to fall across his body
and her muscles to remember him.
Old school writing
I bask alone in fluorescent light
of a windowless warehouse
writing longhand with black pen.
counterintuitive at this point,
scribbling out mistakes,
wondering how you’ll see me
when I can’t hide
behind fancy fonts, spellcheck
or pretty backgrounds.
How does it look – raw, unedited, blue-lined paper
accepting the pressure
of my curved wrist
out of practice, this hand adjusts
and remembers how it loves
the smooth ink swimming
turning what was once blank space,
Can you even read my writing?