It’s not me,
it’s the poems
that are angry,
pressing against my ear,
brushing aside
my hair, their lips close,
breath hot,
pissed off,
urgently whispering
what to write.
It’s them
with their flat hands
smooth as plates,
pushing at the small of my back.
Nobody else
sings to me in the dark.
I’m a good girl,
you won’t catch me
with my panties down.
It’s the poems undressing me,
laying me bare and hungry
against the sheets, trembling.
When words come
to plant kisses
one by one
like tiny seeds along my spine,
and weeds sprout and tangle there,
not fruit.
What else can I tell you,
but it’s the poems?
It’s a noisy abdication,
doused with blood and snot.
Everything I (do not) hate
is revealed in their hiss.
Author's note: Everyone in my workshop pretty much hated that last stanza, or at the very least thought it should go somewhere else. I did some other editing based on my classmates' suggestions, but I'm not convinced they're right about that stanza. Feel free to add your two cents in the comments.
the line "a noisy abdication,
doused with blood and snot"
did indeed jump out at me immediately as a 'quotable'.
It's got 'punch'.
It does feel discordant at the end of that reflection though -- a reflection which stands well on it's own.
What the hell -- the discord provides punch for both.
Let is be.
Many thanks for letting us peer 'between the sheets'
Posted by: greg | 24 February 2011 at 06:37 AM