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Literature Text
The world was warm when I was born.
A big, wet-warm world,
and I was small.
Mom told me I’d grow
into it, but maybe
it was wishful thinking or maybe
I fell short.
It was cold sometimes, and wet,
and it rained down on me
and I yelled sometimes (or wanted to),
tried not to cry sometimes (but always did).
But I was warm.
Used to press my hands on my mouth,
cold hands (he said warm heart)
to keep it in.
I was a well-kept secret,
stones along the bottom of the river.
Had crazy eyes, you know,
but damn it, I kept warm.
~~~
They say it’s hot out there
but I’m cold
freezing like I never was.
Grandpa took me swimming
in December once and
Oh, oh, cold!
blue lips and sharp teeth,
leap-run, shriek
and cold, cold, cold!
but I’ve never been cold like this.
They say it’s hot,
they say summer-is-too-long
but it is winter here,
no snow,
just cold.
I want to swallow the sun,
put it back in me
and cover my mouth
and be safe, and small,
and warm-wet growing
but they don’t like it
when I sit on the balcony edge.
She thinks there’s plenty
of ground,
but I see ice,
it’s all winter to me.
---
I was stones under the river,
but someone stubbed their toe
and blamed me.
Now I’m best-kept-secret
behind curtains and silence
and I cup my hands over my mouth
not to keep warm in,
but to keep the cold away from them.
They don’t like it any more than me,
but they see sun, they leave.
If I’m good, maybe I can come out,
enjoy the sun too,
someday.
____
Sit in a solitary-confinement icebox,
don’t mind me.
Breathe through my fingers and
jack-knife chills
and don’t-mind-me, I’m fine,
Don’t mind me, just the breeze,
(get me out, don’t let me freeze)
How are you enjoying the weather
(talk to me, talk to me, talk to me!)
No, just a little cold
(please help me)
December-in-summer is all,
don’t mind me,
I’m just a little cold.
A big, wet-warm world,
and I was small.
Mom told me I’d grow
into it, but maybe
it was wishful thinking or maybe
I fell short.
It was cold sometimes, and wet,
and it rained down on me
and I yelled sometimes (or wanted to),
tried not to cry sometimes (but always did).
But I was warm.
Used to press my hands on my mouth,
cold hands (he said warm heart)
to keep it in.
I was a well-kept secret,
stones along the bottom of the river.
Had crazy eyes, you know,
but damn it, I kept warm.
~~~
They say it’s hot out there
but I’m cold
freezing like I never was.
Grandpa took me swimming
in December once and
Oh, oh, cold!
blue lips and sharp teeth,
leap-run, shriek
and cold, cold, cold!
but I’ve never been cold like this.
They say it’s hot,
they say summer-is-too-long
but it is winter here,
no snow,
just cold.
I want to swallow the sun,
put it back in me
and cover my mouth
and be safe, and small,
and warm-wet growing
but they don’t like it
when I sit on the balcony edge.
She thinks there’s plenty
of ground,
but I see ice,
it’s all winter to me.
---
I was stones under the river,
but someone stubbed their toe
and blamed me.
Now I’m best-kept-secret
behind curtains and silence
and I cup my hands over my mouth
not to keep warm in,
but to keep the cold away from them.
They don’t like it any more than me,
but they see sun, they leave.
If I’m good, maybe I can come out,
enjoy the sun too,
someday.
____
Sit in a solitary-confinement icebox,
don’t mind me.
Breathe through my fingers and
jack-knife chills
and don’t-mind-me, I’m fine,
Don’t mind me, just the breeze,
(get me out, don’t let me freeze)
How are you enjoying the weather
(talk to me, talk to me, talk to me!)
No, just a little cold
(please help me)
December-in-summer is all,
don’t mind me,
I’m just a little cold.
Literature
Turn my words against me.
I want my words to take
root in your stomach and grow
up your esophagus, the calyx
of your tongue brushing the edge
of your teeth until the words blossom
from your lips in a slow
explosion of elegance, jawline
trickled with nectar, charming
hummingbirds and honeybees
with the promise of butterfly kisses.
Literature
-
death knocks on your
door with a crooked little grin
and tells you that he'd like
his tea with two sugars, please,
and that you'd better start packing;
but only bring your valuables
because he's got no room in his hearse
for remorse
Literature
Vertebrae
we dressed our
salt burns;
purloined ribbons
& bone crowns
spitting static through
our buzzing t.v. teeth
you're a silent migraine:
blue-blooded, honey-soaked
[& i want to be something
too pristine to
touch]
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Been working on this for a while, but finally got it done.
© 2014 - 2024 Synesthi
Comments6
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I just want to let you know that every time I see a new poem of yours sitting in my inbox, I never read it right away. It's like I want to save it, I don't want it to he over so soon. And when I feel like I'm ready and I finally read it, it's always so much more than I hoped for. It's always so much better than I imagined it would be. So thank you for bringing those little moments of joy into my life. I just wish there wasn't so much pain bleeding from between the words.