Delayed Response
You may write me a requiem.
You may sing me a song.
You may write me a poem.
You may send my parents flowers.
You may announce you always loved me.
You may sculpt a statue.
You may send my husband a card.
You may write my sister a letter.
But until you can see
the reality of you and me
Please,
Do not come to my funeral.
Partly Human
They were once the only human.
The person we knew and loved
is now broken bits of speech
and half-machinery.
Partly synthetic.
Fuzzy receptions.
They are partly edible
and have had morsels eaten from them.
Revealing the bite marks.
They have lost their totality
they have been stripped and peeled.
They have changed
They have changed
They have changed
They have changed
They have changed
They are different.
They are different.
They are different.
They are different.
Partly.
But we
press on, in love with the
undying retentions.
The pieces we identify with
the skin.
The teeth.
The bone.
And that reaction, why,
That is also
Partly Human.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
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...
-
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...
-
in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...
-
Today I was interviewed for Poets United small stone: July 13th so many things for granted, taken: two kinds of silverware.
-
A woman's stance feet parted so that like a breezy window the mantle opened slightly lets in curves of salty air- but here there is no, ...
-
Reminder "You do not seem to understand," they'd say "That rivers are wide, and are not so easily crossed, we fear, they ...
-
At age 25 for Sir John Donne Down went San Felipe. Crimson and pale, rippling, clinging to it's mist. Oh, how that flagship hurled itsel...
-
and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
-
July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...
-
No one cares for me, because I once cared for you. futile attempts to invigorate the soil with hands un-gloved, dirty deeds to provide my li...
Not sure what you're meaning by the first one but "But until you can see
ReplyDeletethe reality of you and me
Please,
Do not come to my funeral" is really powerful for me...
I am with you there, sister. lol.
ReplyDelete