Litkicks Message Board Archive

Detroit Short Poems (con't)

Posted to Poetry




why is it that
the men I
choose to love
all think of me
as protege
for their work
in offices
and never elsewhere?


the windchimes
give
a different sort
of sound
to this ally
so full of crying
from cats
as well as people


a kiss would be
the lightest
gesture of love
or so
I might imagine
it could
mean whatever
I chose for it
to mean
love
won't you help me
to test this
theory?
I promise
to be open
to your opinions


part of me is
ashamed
that in fantasy
I killed your lover
then helped you
into my bed
to reassemble all
the tattered pieces
of your heart
the other part
wishes
for better luck
and never
to have known
that other woman


I brew
my tea very strong
not knowing
hor far it's traveled
to reach
my cup
I drink it quietly
trying not
to be too jealous


somewhere in
someplace I could
see on a map
are all the men
I've ever loved
or not loved
depending on
timing
or the pause
of fingers
upon lips
while I was
listening to him
and wondering what it was
he saw


my brother tells me
writing is theraputic
but I wonder
why it is
I always want to
hit myself
with my notebook
throw my pen
through the window


I boil my tea
twice
for a second cup
being poor is a
romance


why is it that
my best ideas are
all wasted in fantasy


putting my ear
to the mouth
of my grandmother's vase
I hear a sound
the ocean never made
at least
while I was there


once
leaders wrote poems
not
in their spare time
but because
they wanted to understand
the souls'
of their subjects
where have
those times gone to


poetry destracts me
from more
practical pursuits
deliciously


I write
for the love of words
no matter how deep
they may
betray me


I'll bite your lip
if you scratch
at the tattoo
in the small of my back
I'll sit in your lap
if you promised
to run your fingers
through my hair and
kiss my eyelid
blow air
across
my cheek


have you forgotten
my foolishness
for wanting you when you were
attatched
to another?
it was the first
of many
mistakes


that season
my father says
I'd grown five years
like a plant that sits
in the window
I don't know
what sun I
move towards
or how thick
the glass is


I often taste
the liquids
I produce
and can only
wonder
what another's
might be like
how different


I pause
and put down my book
so surprised to see
this side of morning