Sunday, December 16, 2007

Old Poem 2

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago.

All Sorts of Melting

They never came.
I mean that in more ways than one.
I am reduced to drinking tea with wayward winds and tinsel twigs.
My drawer is filled with unused sugar.
The smear of chocolate is on my lips only.

We can be televangelists saving souls,
While the peaks of the city spires throb in Freudian bliss.
Let me weave a tale with my fingers.
Let me breathe the smell of piss and European cigarettes.
The sound of my heels on the pavement makes me feel like a whore.
I knew a guy who liked stilettos and very white skin.
We were never alone together.

I'm counting the pleats in my skirt in an effort to divine the future.
I'm buying super absorbent paper towels.
I don't know the difference between a heathen and a heretic.
My father has worn a Star of David around his neck for as long as I can remember.
We're still having ham on Christmas Eve.

You told me you were all sorts of melting,
As if that meant something to me.
Can you feel my heart? It beats in a doom-doom way.
Different than yours.
I'm trying not to think of your hands.
And the night we walked in the snow.
Maybe in my next life I will ask the questions much earlier,
And you won't be afraid.

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