Random poems
Good —
Still me with sepia.
Four-corner this grief
and make it stick.
Deftly, deftly
(with finger licked)
turn each page until
long ago and
once upon a time
render it mute.
Better —
Spike me with fever.
Burn it away,
from the outside in.
Minister me with
sips and spoons,
with wrapped necks
and garlic cloves.
Blind me with a cool cloth
until I no longer see
what I can no longer see.
Best —
Like a nursery curtain
(hush)
let this day close.
Let bedtime spill us all
into the Land of Nod.
With flashlights
and fairy dust,
chase it out from
underneath the bed.
Rock it away,
lullaby it down,
into oblivion.
Yes.
_________________________________________________
Here’s a quick tip —
Counting coins and
stacking chairs and
flicking on the lights
before the show is
even over,
is not bearing witness.
Covering your ears
to hide the grooves
my words have etched
with their endless, concentric circles,
is not bearing witness.
From wall to wall darting,
from watch to window jumping,
flitting, flitting, flitting,
like a jacked up butterfly,
is not bearing witness.
Using your death row shuffle
to discreetly drop behind,
when all that remains is
just around the corner
(right over there!),
is not bearing witness.
And —
Taking your hands to
spackle, patch, and prettify,
rather than to gather, cup, and carry,
when I offer up the broken bits
(oh so timorously),
is not bearing witness.
__________________________________________________
Slippers whisper across the floor.
A soft sound,
a barely-there sound.
Who needs noise to make
a cup of tea?
But now is not the time for words.
Blow into a balloon
all of that hot, heavy air.
Get the loudness out.
Watch your lost words grow.
Watch the noise go soft and round,
the sound like slippers on the floor.
Do you remember?
Not in a month of Sundays,
you whispered as I bit your ear,
skin still so ripe, pulse tattooing
its beat against my cheek.
Not until hell freezes over and pigs fly,
you later promised,
skin a loose rice paper,
a flimsy cover for what lay beneath.
Still these offerings up to me,
still from that same battered pail.
And still, I believed you.
Liar.
