Oh God! I am not hollow!!
All this time I have been lacking parts,
I have not. My bones and intestines
and heart are curled in stainless steel.
These inside pieces are flexing against metal,
but I have been watching while
little and big hands tick around the clock.
It is morning, my crusty eyes meet the sun.
My hand brings water and poison to
meet my tongue,
then suddenly night grips me and we dim,
in warm embrace we rest.
I am with baggage and a stamp, on my way
to mirror a bride,
or a student,
or just “myself”,
without a key,
or a book,
or a groom.
It is morning and my crusty eyes meet the
birds swimming in last night’s weather.
My hand burns from last night’s torture
and brings poison to my tongue,
then suddenly, night wraps its
pretty, long legs around me and we rest.
Where have I been recently?
Where do I want to go?
To a mirror, without a groom?
To a classroom, without a book?
To my “self”, without a key?
It is morning and my crusty eyes greet me.
My hands sting with reality as I rub last night
out. I have unrestricted bones and muscle,
A strange duality with “I Hope This is My Face…” – “My hands sting with reality as I rub last night out…” so powerful, and yet familiar?
This one and “I Hope This Is Mu Face Before I Die ” are difficult pieces, ar least for ne. I appreciate that. They both have pulled me back ti read again and again to tease the meaning out. Stellar work.
It’s early and I’m typing on a tablet. Forgive they typos.
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This is forceful. I particularly like the verse beginning “I am with baggage…”.