Saturday, February 2, 2013

Poetry: Again.

There’s nothing decadent about linoleum and hemp covered chairs, the engraving of car key ridge imprints sunken into their wooden arms.
Someone suffered anxiety here,
questioning if their trepidation was warranted.

If this is what you wanted, why are you suddenly inquisitive?

The doctor will ask you if you’re sure.
The nurse will tap her pen against the clipboard in a hurried cadence.

You will remember the clash of your lovers’ thighs,
on your own.
Wonder which one is responsible for your current predicament:
Was it the one who got up in the middle of the night,
like he’d stolen something?
Or the one who’d actually wanted to stay.

You know…
The one you took for granted.

Love clings sometimes,
sticks to you like sweat.
On cold winter nights you wished for the sun
and here you are pissed at its repercussions.
The intensity of heat,
the suffocating warmth.

Everything smells like bleach here,
you will always be reminded of your womb,
while washing laundry;

folding the sleeves of that hooded sweatshirt,
which hid nothing from anyone.
It will remind you of the clasp of something inside of you
and pulled from you, like it wasn’t once yours.

You will never give it a name.
This moment,
this mistake,
this thing.


Tell them that you don't want this.
Tell them that the world is nothing without your brood,
you carry stars within a galaxy bereft of them.

Who will shine down on tomorrow,
if everything that glitters turns to dust?

They will snicker at your metaphors.
Be  quiet.
The nurse will mumble something about
women putting themselves in these dilemmas
and choosing to stay.

The doctor will be silent, but his eyes will scream decide.

You will resign with the sprawl of your legs and your back to them,
the rustling of medical paper in your ears.

And he will say good girl,
just like the last man did.