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Skin
by Michael Ladanyi
He told me there was something
brilliant beneath the skin, through
alleys of blood, bone, muscle,
tendon, something walnut-delicate
that rest in quiet waters, in shade
of October's thin-leaved trees,
something bloated and yet dried
out like newspaper newly
coffee-spilled. His eyes smiled
the dark hazel of a thing done in
secret, as I tasted the bottomless
brandy in my tilted glass, watched
my wife walk across our worn,
brown carpet, my later-that-night-
hand in sweet dampness of her
inner thighs. Did I believe him, he
asked? Does it matter, I answered?
His eyes became the looking-glass
blue of a morning sky before war.
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Copyright © 2003 by Michael Ladanyi.
This was originally published in the October print issues of two of Skyline Publications four print magazines, A Hudson View and Skyline Literary Magazine, Copyright (C) Oct. 2002.
Michael Ladanyi lives in the foothills of the North Georgia Mountains with his wife and two daughters. He is an editor with Rustlings of the Wind and maintains a large poet/writer resource site at: http://www.geocities.com/poet662002/ His poetry has appeared over fifty times during the last year in print and online magazines and journals in the U.S., U.K., Greece, India and Australia, among them, Snow Monkey, Joey and the Black Boots, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Concrete Wolf, Promise, Skyline Literary Magazine, Red Booth Review, Poetry Greece, The Taj Mahal Review, PoetryRepairShop, ken*again, A Hudson View, Free Zone Quarterly, and The Circle, among others.
He has won several Editors Choice and Poet of the Month Awards from Skyline Literary Magazine and Poetic Reflections. He has recently written with, and is seeking publication of, poetry co-written with the novelist/poet Robert Edward Levin.
Michael has been published as a guest poet recently with Poetry In A Cup and The Muses Student. His work is forthcoming in several magazines. He has this to say about the poetry of image vs. the poetry of its words. "Words are merely confused child wishes led to paper and stacked in large and small piles of ordered discontinuance, though we would be lost, as poets, without image. If there were no words, image alone would suffice to teach us to write again."
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