I am the palm touching my cheek,
and hiding my face,
I am dead nerve endings--pulsating alive again,
I am the little girl who cuddles vicious, heat-struck
malamutes and singing, oblivious, clinging to them
nuzzling --giving too much love--accidentally
stepping on their tails--too close to their open jaws-
Oh, friendly beast, love me too for the moment,
meet this challenge, be the only one who can do it,
I am the blood congealing,
I am the sorry yellow napkin,
I am the old woman's wringing hands
I am the doctor's crooked stitch
Now I am,
a faded scar, I am no pain, but a
constant reminder,
Look at me, friends and foes,
I am the one who cares,
but I am the one you say
"this is a who-cares-you
should-have-known-better-heartbreak."
You stupid girl, you clumsy thing,
stop giving so much.
I am the love you reserve for those
who don't deserve you.
I am the love reserved
for the unlovely.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
-
Another Indian woman living on our block has hair swept back and braided has jeweled toes, is in all yellow traditional regalia, and walks w...
-
husband and I trek a mile for ice cream just for the creamy banana, crunchy pecans, and chunks of thumb-sized chocolate. shoes flipping and...
-
driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
-
hunger is sometimes preferable to loneliness. a stomach will twist- but hands become dirty and heavy when full of coins.
-
there ain't no other place like you to roam. where I dug in my heels and said "No, I won't come home!" Dancing in the warb...
-
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but...
-
Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
-
nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
-
confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.

No comments:
Post a Comment