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.
I picked up that ceramic piece
of what she called art.
t was fired in her summer camp kiln.
it was fired in the infernal internal fires that she caged.
…I thought it would explode,
that pink little rabbit.
I thought her unhinged desire
would burst
into a fine display of
no, I project.

I projected my
foaming, fizzing,
volcanic fear ready to burst into
an ugly display of
childish panic.
The ceramic piece of
(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
was NOT
the catharsis of my
rage parade
It did not light up the streets
when I heaved it
with all of my internal infernal hate
put behind it
it crumbled into ten dusty pieces
that I swept up
all alone
the next morning.

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