A microscopic home.

this is a literary blog. i'm literate so i must have something to say. hopefully.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

the night before I flee

the teacher

all the nights a rage
sorrow so thick that

my tongue is coated in bitter
words for you and your
flocks – your following
and I leave this building like

I leave this city wishing
you could dissolve into
left over words and your
many publications.

in them you preach precision
but I see only a broken man,

gulping pride through syllables
and tapping toes in some hidden
morse code that I’m certain,
I will never understand.

the child

I hear him blame me in his sleep
how he moves relentlessly in the bed
next to my body- next to my body.

and I wonder if he knows that the
sun used to rise behind my thighs
that the skies quivered on my lips
the night time descended into
the arch of my spine.

if he can recall how it felt to
carve his initials into parts of me
that still to this day
burn and ache like the desire of
teenage hearts

the boy

i glanced to the river
as he fondled the space

my fingers always rose
to my lips when
he smiled

he would tell me that
the sky caressed us
when the stars were this shade
of gold, even if the

air was dead and ached.

the father

I would sit on his knee
so my toes couldn’t reach the floor

still he would reprimand me
for feeling impossible.

the brother

I saw a picture once
of his penis
tucked into the back of his
boxes of disks;
and after that I could
never look him in the eye.

the stranger

the window on the bus builds your reflection
of unknown features
I struggle not to turn to my
left and memorize the width of
your eyes, the posture of your lids.

this is a long ride
and I am going home, alone.


Blogger Colin said...

I really like "The Stranger", hope I see you in Sarnia.

10:28 a.m.  

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