...Moons ago
just once
I turned the tendon of my work
toward lust
fancied I loved a girl
who fancied herself above
confessing to the listening crowd
how well we knew the salt taste of each other
nesting under pillows
nestling
hiding
both needing affirmation
we clawed at each other
folded finances into performances
built riffs and recited badly written poems
sometimes I crafted lines
I have since then used for other tales
more trutfully told
some days
she still gets me goat and anger
still renders me petty
not because she moves me anymore
more
because I am not certain she ever did
really
I convinced myself of every good thing I said about her
one single orange thread of consolation
weaves itself frayed and breaking around me
on days like these I pull it tight across my shoulders
and remind my resentful breaths
that my lips
weren't lying when I painted her
beautiful
my fingers are not dishonest shading her blue/black
bathed in bruises and buffered nights
recounting how we survived such adult childhoods
her wounds gleamed the silver lining
sometimes
the right light can hit something broken
and the shattered teeth glint
pearls and promises
the edge of a hand-blown glass
slices into the gentle palm
blood pouring
such a wonderful work of potential art
smashed to bits
by the invisible wrist of some lover
or mother
father
brother
whoever hit you
love
I am sorry it tore the parts of you
necessary for love
it has been
years and I am just beginning
to speak you
cathartic from my veins
just learning to articulate you
in pity
and pardon
you were only one arc of a circle
continuing to turn harmful
in the sequence of trust twisting crude
over the arm of a familiar betrayal
little girls always bear the shackles of victim
and if we have spines we become bitches to avoid
or to weather
whether we
grow up or out of it
our past marks us
for bad or better
most of our memories madden us
arouse us sobbing into the sleeping arms
of some love or other
and some nights
if we are lucky
she awakens
just enough to hold our sorrows
for a few moments
her kisses swallow tears and tremors subsiding
the hours eventually pass
morning emerges
fingers tap dancing chapters
of a book
a life bleeding
hilarious
giggles errupting because one of you
has farted
juvenile
we become children again
able to inhale
the most acrid experience
and still come up for air
Posted by staceyann at July 5, 2006 11:45 PM