Sunday, October 11, 2015

crying didn’t help me.
it made your skin crawl and I,
well, I do think you liked it.

because you can’t cry. No,
I know that
your tears have waterlogged your weary head.
All that pressure sealed your 
pulsing eyelids
and kept you silent,
but thrust my legs (left-toe to right-heel)
all the way out the front door.
I saw a
hard, cold, little rabbit.
I picked it up 
and laughed right at it.
I even made myself sick 
when I decided
what I was going to do then.
so I picked up that ceramic piece
of what she called art.
i
t was fired in her summer-camp kiln.
it was fired in the fire that she lacked.
…I thought it would explode,
that pink little rabbit.
I thought her unhinged desire 
would burst 
into a fine display of 
passion-under-pressure
erupting.
I project.
I projected my
foaming,
fizzing,
volcanic-fear-ready-to-burst-into 
an ugly display of
childish panic.
The ceramic piece of
art,
(that pastel bunny with the chip on its shoulder,
a deep pit that we used as a cigarette holder),
her kiln-fired, summer-camp, funny 
bunny
was NOT 
the catharsis for my 
rage parade
It did not light up the streets
when I heaved it 
with all of my clandestine hate
put behind it
Instead, 
it crumbled into ten dusty pieces
that I swept up
all alone
the next morning.

No comments:

Post a Comment