Two Sonnets

by Jean Hillabold

#1

My hands learn wit at thought of touching you,
My hair turns darker, and I grow an inch.
Whatever you might want I can outdo,
While you envelop me until I flinch.
Is this a war of wills? Is this a joke?
Is this true love, stripped to an honest grace?
Or teenage romance wreathed in silver smoke,
A mask of sequins on a half-grown face?

No dictionary can define the terms
Of such a game, a dance, an exercise
Of ill-considered moves in inner space,
Where cyclones whirl our ever-changing forms.
If I grow horns when seen through heated eyes,
My shoulder-blades sprout wings in your embrace.

#2

Sneaking on tiptoe, like a thief at night,
I breathe steam on the windows of your mind,
Jimmying logic, tempted by the sight
Of hoarded images beyond the blind.
When will I know you, knowing what you know,
Touching what you feel inside your skin?
And can you also find sly ways to go
Beyond locked doors where no one asked you in?

Keeping my secrets underneath the ground
We've leveled for our meeting in fresh air,
I wonder if you know what isn't said,
What lies unseen, still waiting to be found
By rude and welcome feet, trespassing where
No other fool has come to wake the dead.

© 2006 by Jean Hillabold