Thursday, May 16, 2013

draft

forgiveness.


Two young, once bruised, stand around in the same room. Mended. Cells have lived and died since then. Hair that boasts no split ends. Socks that match, a newly acquired freckle.


Don Henley’s “Heart of the Matter” is playing on the receptionist’s tiny radio, whose antennae is capped with a corner of foil and a Starburst wrapper. The dentist is two rooms down the hall, drilling. The patient’s skin is green under all of her jewelry.


Root canal rolls out ballet-like.


Your dried flowers were crushed in the move. There was nothing we could do. Mass of blooms the color of rust, husk of stems arranged like broken fingers. They went right to sand.


My love sealed the windows, took on a bitterness. Aorta of aspirin.


Stop it with the licorice gum. Your breath is a headache.


In the lineage of heartbeats per minute there is a valley, a mountain, a million open mouths in paper floors. A floor crowded by the medicine balls that punched through them. A stick, some glue, last rites--I cannot mend it. Call upon the cadavers; we need everyone.

Sam Cooke sings darling youuuuuuu send me and the girls melt like cheddar in a microwave. The regret is a dinosaur ducking through trees, wearing wrinkles in orbit on knees and neck. It is fossilized, studied. It might be wild life and needs protecting. In the post cards on the bookshelf. Distance turns it make believe.

No comments:

Post a Comment