There was
a poetry
competition
being
advertised.
“Enter it,”
My friend
urged-
“They’ll accept
anything.”
here I
am
half-scold
half-bridle
I have
every right
and they
every wrong
am I
alright?
am I
alright?
this is
the sound
of life
happening
while
I am
here
skies
are
overrated
as are
dead leaves
and
eye
contact
(I’m
being watched
anyway)
here I
am
I am
here
Words
made of
Frozen leather,
And the
sweet teeth
of your
best/worst critics
biting into
the flesh
you thought
no-one would
see.
And the
grudging friendship
you’ve developed
with
blank screens,
stray sheets-
else,
you’re not even
on speaking terms
anymore.
Or the ideas
which now
flap
like rags
on the
clothes lines of
abandoned
houses.
Hang in
there(?)
This
erasure of
self,
this removal
of flesh
from a state
of existence,
Means
there is
less
that might be
poached
by powers
that be.
Juliet is
Lighting in denim
As she
Steps, effortless,
Through the
Firecracker
Patterns of
East-Coast Swing.
Every step
Wings her away
From the day
When she knew
She couldn’t
Be a ballerina
Anymore.
“What passes
You by,” she muses,
“Was never yours.”
Well,
You dug your heels in
pretty deep,
which means,
I guess,
you’re not going
anywhere.
So I’m
taking myself away
in boots
cracked up and
busted open by
too many days
of waiting
for not a lot.
I’ll be stepping by
furrows of will
and dirt-farm pride
and just about
getting
to the point
that my own shadow
is enough company.
Or,
The False Lover,
being a true and full Account
of the Misfortunes of a Young Lady
who fell Victim to
a Certain Gentleman,
The Means of her Seduction,
the many Insults she suffer’d,
and bore,
the Ways in which she was
Ill-us’d and spurn’d
by the same Gentleman,
With Details of the
Sundrie Cruelties
and Acts of
Falseness and Betrayal
committ’d,
Together with
Remarks
upon the Consequences
of these,
and Warnings
address’d particularly to
Young Readers,
who would do well to heed them,
lest they should
fall into the same
Difficulties, Trials and Pains
themselves.
This was a widowed summer,
days spent in cold apathy
and nights in tepid silence,
only the crickets in the
thick of their recitative.
This was the summer
that he learned that
the moon only laughs
at, not with, you,
and hopelessness
is a taste one acquires
like spare elastic bands
or loose paperclips.
This was the summer
he tried to forget the
sound of his own voice
and strained his eyes
so he’d be able to see
every place as the last
he would draw breath in.
When my bones
are acquainted
with darkness
and curve into the
damp embrace
of the
quiet earth,
My headstone
will shade
thirsty birds
and the edges
of my plot
will be a thoroughfare
for the
whispering ants.
My father will
bake a strudel,
My mother will
light a candle.
My sister will
write a romance,
My brother will
write a song.
My books
will lie scattered
across the city,
opening to
the faces
of strangers.
My dresses will
hang from
telephone lines,
flags to tell
that I surrendered.
When your loving’s good,
it’s a
slice of beauty
so sharp and clear
it sears
my eyes shut.
When your loving’s good,
it’s a force
so pure I bleed
from my clutching
fingernails.
When your loving’s good,
I want to
efface every
particle of me
to make more
space for you
in the world.
