Poems on Apart


The map makes distance smaller than it seems. Yet what’s the difference
anyway between two fingers and six across that great divide of
grey? My city is a dot. Your city is a circle inside a circle. Walls of want
that can’t be crossed but for creatures small enough to slip.
I am big. I contain not just multitudes, but multiple attitudes.
I blow in by storm, arrive by hurricane. Cross the miles, let the
smaller creatures hurry in my presence. Waiting is overrated.


I am in love with the process of waiting. It dresses like an evening
gown before the evening. A swish of fabric with the decorum all wrong
for breakfast, eggs and cereal in the sink. This sitting here is the sparkle
of promise, the poise of a woman, waiting, alone, for her
moment to shine.


Muted is the step after fierceness. The light switch swings toward
fitted sheets and shows my flaws. Loneliness is a many-whiskered thing,
always seeking forward with tremble and trepidation. There’s a tail
and tiny feet under the bed. I might remember putting them there,
if only to give me something to do.


There is nothing to do now
but wait. The map never folds back the way
it opened. But then none of us ever do.



Image taken with iphone
Words written at Case Study Coffee
Time Taken 7 minutes
Brain on coffee, love, life, friendship, work (omg, so much work!) and clothes
on fucked if I know.

This entry was published on January 26, 2012 at 6:00 pm and is filed under January, Poems, Portland, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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