The White Pages Poem by Gordon R Menzies

I write the finest lines between
your pale legs splayed, these
pages where the ink will not dry
in the shadow of mountains
pressed by my hands, warm
the flesh of your stomach
an arid, snowy plain, a stage
lit by the light of your eyes
each day knee calls to knee
farewell until we meet again
my tongue is a restless pen
your long fingers clench tight
in the forest of my curls, and
every true word traced there
layers on those that first fell
a palimpsest of memories, and
the letters find love there
intertwined on the white pages
you give birth in sighs and tears
to things unseen, unsung, unknown
and these children cry for ears
find pathways to silent hearts
where home is blood and resonance
and the milk of the lost is supped
where new white pages part, and
long for letters of their own