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Literature Text
I imagine you're a child on a swing,
legs pumping wildly as you call to me, shouting:
"Look, no hands!"
You stick your tongue at fate
and blow rasberries at common sense
before you hurtle into the dirt.
Little thing,
your lower lip trembles
at this new, familiar hurt.
I'm sympathetic,
but I let you cry there.
You've done this to yourself.
Maybe this time
marked your ninety-eighth fall, but
each bruise is different
and deserves tears of its own.
You reach for me to pick you up.
I always oblige.
I understand that part of your charm
lies in how you'll squirm from my arms--
always so anxious to get out again,
forgetting your scrapes before they heal and
making new ones before I can teach you caution.
legs pumping wildly as you call to me, shouting:
"Look, no hands!"
You stick your tongue at fate
and blow rasberries at common sense
before you hurtle into the dirt.
Little thing,
your lower lip trembles
at this new, familiar hurt.
I'm sympathetic,
but I let you cry there.
You've done this to yourself.
Maybe this time
marked your ninety-eighth fall, but
each bruise is different
and deserves tears of its own.
You reach for me to pick you up.
I always oblige.
I understand that part of your charm
lies in how you'll squirm from my arms--
always so anxious to get out again,
forgetting your scrapes before they heal and
making new ones before I can teach you caution.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
my hands were blue and so was i
and i had everything:
a christmas tree
a guitar tuned by humidity
a dark library underneath my pillow
and a voice whose words jerk, jut
and stab quietly into one another
so i may never understand;
it was two AM, dawn of a decade
and here a ghost has me motionless in 1933.
--
i never met my grandfather till today--
he dies in 1975
and in 2020 he is born
at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen,
his coffin and crib:
he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker
(or perhaps an autophagic author himself);
his crib and coffin:
he is buried a lifetime
(deaf to my cacophonous lifetime et ceter
Literature
the greatest poem
The greatest poem I’ve never read is lying in a notebook somewhere, probably in Bangladesh, written in a language I can’t speak by a person I will never hear. I’ve never seen it nor heard of it because this person doesn’t know what they have and no one knows to dig where a mosaic is laid. And in the silent space that poem leaves I tremble. I ache, like an untouched woman. The greatest poem I’ve never written is lying in my heart right now, it's gatekeepers grief and shame. It’s there because of emotions I can’t give names for fear of unlocking too much and it all flowing out like a broken dam. You have never seen flood; you have not known storm. And in the silent space that poem leaves I cry. I bleed, from my fingers and from my palms. The greatest poem that never was must be in a dead man’s heart, or a woman’s, and I think of hiring grave robbers and a necromancer but the past is a torn sheet that can’t keep us warm. Although, some things can mend. I think I could revive this
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Certainly, my tendencies and trends in romance mirror that of an accident-prone child.
Comments22
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Adorable! Love your vision of this child. It is like every child because they all fall and get hurt... CONSTANTLY.... But they always get up and go another round. They just want to make sure every now and again that you have seen them and are there with them through it all... Through all of the bumps and bruises....