Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Once,


a little blue and red person 
screamed I was her 
imposter. 

I cannot contrive this. 

And when I wept, it was not 
for poets
it was for me
for me, who begs stranger 
to cut away the serpent 

I haven't listened 

the serpent with flattened 
head that flops 
with more alleged anxiety 
than I 
because I 
can use tears and splash 
through them when 
new men come knocking, 
visiting monuments 
other than 
themselves. 

I come to you hungry
bent from watching
my hands and feet 
roam about, making. 
I crackle toward you
grinning and rickety.
You see I am you
but you want you  
for your own.
You want credit for your 
agony, and you want me
to go home. You want
to protect this road 
from the demon 
in my simper.
in my simper.  

No comments:

Post a Comment