Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Two Poems

These poems are two different poems.


One day I’ll give myself to you
muscle and mouth but
not yet.
                                    (you’re already half holding on anyway)
Every time I should tell you I
get this urge to lean into the
rushing and shake your hands and clasped fingers
                                    but I’d be pulled
                                    off balance; my fault.
My name’s not yet been dipped
in your fat not dipped not coaled and
as a result it’s uninsulated
though I think
                                    by some adopted.      
Will probably never really get the
rolling and the green right in my
                                    but you keep
                                    november out okay.
I can see where I’d’ve looked for
treasure in your pebbled beds
and monsters in your darks
                                    and I could have
                                    raised (snapped) armies
No but it’s okay because I
first screamed I think in clean walls
but I know where
                                    I was made, wasted
                                    drenched, tripping, tumbling
                                    down slope (to damp) to road to
                                    get helped up


then when you broke the window
when you smashed the window
when you shattered into sand the high window
                                                                                    we flinched
then when you dropped the plate
            when you threw the plate down
            when you hammered the china plate straight down onto the marble
                                                                                    we blinked
                                    We made ships from the
splinters you seeded.
                                    We glued mug rags into
statuettes of Buddha Ganesha and Set.
                                    We tickled into stacks the
dripped off corn sheets.
                                    We rubbed the scum of
work hours off your knuckles and lips.
                                    We wouldn’t
bother you because it wouldn’t have been
fair instead we
learned to sew
every day again we learned to sew
quiet fast so you couldn’t see the stitching we learned to sew
then when you broke the lock
            when you couldn’t find your keys and broke the lock
            when you half tore down the door the time you had to break the lock
                                                                                    we jumped
then when you woke up
            when you got woken up late on night
            when she woke you up hungry late and pitch black on night
                                                                                    we looked down and
it was in nights like those that we
learned to sew those dry split sweating nights that we
really and truly learned to sew hands clasped to every toga then
quiet fast so you never knew there’d been a stitch we
learned to sew
then when you couldn’t eat
            when you couldn’t force it down
            when you gagged
                                                                                    we ducked
then when you just needed to think
            when you just needed room to think
            when you just needed some quiet room to think
                                                                                    we shut up
                                    We coloured the lines in with
chalk from the bricks.
                                    We carved your meals with
scissors you dropped.
                                    We blackened the mirrors with
blowtorches in circles and squares.
                                    We scrubbed the hulls the
doors with water and wax.
                                    We were
always grateful we knew we
owed you all we had we didn’t
ever want you to think we
didn’t know so to
show we were so grateful we
learned to sew

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