Mar. 8th, 2011

Will You--

Mar. 8th, 2011 12:24 am
melodicinkysin: (I like tiles.)


You
shovel a horde
of lemonheads between
your tongue-slick lips,
squeak and resist the urge
to spit them out.
                                          I
                             choke, for
             the feeling in my gut
      is the pull at your cheeks
and the burning, acidic singe
                  of your tastebuds.
                              I recollect
      the contents of my lunch,
                 hoping not to find     
           them on the sidewalk,
and try my best not to stutter.
You
fumble around
your room, sink
a pushpin into your heel.
You choke bombs
you long to drop
and barricade them behind your teeth,
bobble on the carpet and pluck
the tack from your heel.
                   I
                               am silent,
       swallowing and internally
                               remarking
                              on the bob
                of my adam’s apple
and the scratch of my tongue.
You
stand in the cold
for hours for the snow,
the movement of my hands
would be the quake
of your muscles.
You stamp your feet and try
to will them— obey —
to cease their vibrations,
                                 while I,
                       feeling the rouge of my knee
        abrading the sidewalk, hold your gaze
                                 to the quivering image
                                      of a red velvet box.
              I pull the lid open, nearly dropping
                          it, plead you with my eyes,
                         unable to ask the question
                                you knew was coming.
melodicinkysin: (but I'm missing the wings.)
“I heard a Fly buzz—when  I died—”   –Emily Dickinson



Strewn belongings left
to the apartment:
rent long overdue, rude black-on-white
‘EVICTION’
stapled to the door.
He—the King
could  not be witnessed in a room
no longer mine.
                            Not that I expected Him to visit.

My feeble frame—disability services refused to pay,
split in halves at nineteen—sagged
on my one, good, arm.
I dragged my useless appendages
down the Atherton Pier,
alone, [no sobbing parents to
dote on their child, Everything will be fine]
with deathly resolve.

The pier gave out,
plashless I footed into the brackish
icewater of the bay.
                                        I belonged there,
with the corpses of the whores and criminals,
                       forgotten fish food.



Woven threads of my sweater
buoyed about me as stormclouds heaving
in the murk, tugging toward the surface.
No fly bequeathed its
                                      —uncertain, stumbling Buzz
The bay would drown it, I am sure.

The cold set in,
and fear,
as rippling currents
pulled at my ankles.
            Down I go.
My lungs drew in the polluted bay;
drowning,
 I quaked—I can’t do this
in muffled burbles. 
I reached toward the tossing wraiths
of orange city light,
the rippled hulls of barnacled tugboats,
summoning an empty prayer
at the bottom.  Pull me out.

No buzz. 

I’m sure I washed ashore that night,
my prayer answered.
Was it the hand of God
that thrust his cold palm
into mine, or…
                            I could not see to see—

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Melissa

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