Friday, April 4, 2014

npm: 4.3 & 4.4

I missed yesterday's poem due to a migraine. To make up for it, I'll write two today.


04.03

haunt(in weeks)

She spits daggers
lifts houses
grass grit of front yard
colors teeth--
her grin
black dirt and blood.

Flung her arms in the oak,
and the sun rose past scaffold
past factory, veils on stake
mourning post.

Only ever mine but never--
honey ghost go home.
Wanted true but wrong clock--

braids her snakes
driveway tongue
boots the ground below.



04.04

before before, there is after

When I had no silverware,
I stole a fork from a restaurant.
My heart at the time lined his pockets
with cloth napkins, jammed
the soup spoon in his sock.

Our refridgerator boasted
a bottle of wine, loaf of bread.
His bag rattled Mad Dog, our tub
roared with laundry.

When we left he said
leave it. This shoe, this plate. This gifted
surface on split leg.
I left my blood in the water back then,
bagged up hurt
and never unpacked the truck.

No comments:

Post a Comment