I
am not a conversationalist
It’s
been one long lie
Both
here and outside my ribcage
At
a special witching hour, I can pluck and jitter
Until
I’m blue in the face
Which
you’d recognize
If
you looked from underneath your own bones
Once
in a while.
How
darling it is, how pervasive
The
thought of myself as perched on
Your
arm
Shoulder
Top
of a sofa, feet on the cushions
Windowsill
Scarred
butcher block of a kitchen counter
Where
thyme and orange peels were chopped
And
made into syrup
Leaving
stains in the wood
For
no one to notice but me, eyes down
Searching
for the next line in my throat
Ready
to shout
Hoping
shards of bone, the pointed ends of ribs
Will
stop stinging my lungs
After
this custom cocktail confection:
An
Old Fashioned for the unfashioned.
I’m
not your conversationalist, I’m not
Your
friends’ friend
I’m
not even mine.
It’s
been the longest lie, and I can’t put it on the block now
Some
things stain without ever having been cut.
Drink
this.
So no small talk then :)
ReplyDeleteI have lost my English, anyhow, it's all covered in rust. But I will take shards of lonely poetry anytime. That and a drink :)
I'm a good detective for lost words; I can sniff them out in any language. Even covered in rust.
ReplyDeleteDrinks: yes.
PS I cut off all my hair months ago. How are you?
I'm happy now :) I can't imagine you in short hair, I'm not a visual person. I bet you look splendid! I started writing in Swedish which is good for me, but I miss interaction with writing people :) S'lovely to hear from you, obviously. So, short hair, anything else?
ReplyDelete