BLOOD-FOLD
he
can’t see me in the dim bar light.
he is smiling at someone else.
someone else is hidden.
someone else is meaningless.
are my edges beginning to fade,
with nothing to drape my organs?
I become a platelet, spilled on concrete.
eat me with a fork and swallow.
he is a blur of black-and-white face paint
a ghoul, a shadow, a sharp-toothed reminder.
why do I always construct myself
from other people’s skeletons?
this trust has run dry.
this marrow contains no water.
the room pulses like a vein
and I am suddenly aware of myself.
I
step out into a throng of strangers.
the
night tangles its breath on my coat.
this ache hangs like a web.
You know before you say hi and everything you do is a secret? Then you decide to say something, you let the other person know you exist, and that you are interested, you step out of the shadows, then suddenly everything becomes easier, and you feel okay with talking. That is exactly what this comment is about. Suddenly I feel like I can tell you how great your poems are, instead of lurking undetectable in another dimension.
ReplyDelete"he is a blur of black-and-white face paint—
a ghoul, a shadow, a sharp-toothed reminder.
why do I always construct myself
from other people’s skeletons?"
Lovely.
Ahh thank you. :D
ReplyDeleteI know the feeling.