Skip to main content

I keep coming across the same stranger

I keep coming across the same stranger, and she wants me to dream in the same color green. To beat the rugs to precision, hanging as they do in patterned formation, Persian, Southwest, Chinese, deep red, oh the ocher repeating, what do we see? I keep coming across the same stranger, and she creaks with the knees she has danced on forever out of my sight. I keep throwing my elbows up and out and swigging the potbellied Koolaid, this is a childhood I won’t escape, this is a dance I won’t remember. I keep letting go of the same things, eyelid by eyelid, there isn’t an end to this riddle, it isn’t sweet but it tastes like it, there isn’t anything left at the end. I keep letting go of the same things and my hands ache from opening, from being empty. I keep letting go of the same things and in the distance the worldbeat mows and scrapes, drills and races.

I keep coming across the same stranger, and she whispers in someone else’s ear but it echoes in mine. She dances in someone else’s body but it hurts in mine. She dreams in someone else’s language but I wake up in mine. I keep coming across the same stranger, and she speaks to me in the same riddle, and if her mother is dead, like mine, then aren’t we the same? She is two steps ahead of me, three steps behind, and we are each wrapped in bubbles that will not pop. I keep coming across the same stranger, and I won’t say the words, it would be too easy, I open my hands again and I let go. I keep letting go of the same things. I keep coming across the same stranger.

I keep coming across the same stranger, and she is certain. Oh, to be certain. That she is. She cannot be me because she is certain and I am so busy letting go. She is certainly me but I must let her go. I keep letting go. She comes back.

I keep coming across the same stranger, and her world is small, but she and I are enormous. She can’t smell colors, I can’t see flavors, we both keep bumping into things. I try to make sense, she tries to unmake it, we’re never in the same place and oh, I keep coming across the same stranger.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...
1 comment
Read more

My own lone self (ghazal)

I wanted a minute’s breath to quiet my hectic own self I wanted the voices held away from my frenzy-prone self I thought, let me close my eyes and hold my face in my hands Just like that I was in a world apart with my unknown self It was meant to be only a moment, to still my jangled thoughts But I stayed there, unhooked, unplugged, with my dreamzone self I’m a little girl. I’m a gawky teen. I’m a weird aging woman I’m a dancing fool sitting stone still alone with my own grown self Just me and the quiet. Just me held safe in my own cool hands A circle of peace around this jangly shaky-bone self The magic is usually deep in the snaking threads that keep us webbed Tonight I cut them all to spend time with my sole lone self I’m a silent rebellion, a party of one, my face in my strong cool hands A prayer of my own in this alien world, hauling home my far-flown self
Post a Comment
Read more

there was a tree to draw (listening to Rhiannon)

there was a tree to draw and I drew it strangely there was a sweetness to draw on and I smashed it wrong there was a wall full of drawers and in every one an old body there was a zipper to pull and everything went spilling lost this is the wrong handwriting but it keeps looping this is the quiet, finally, brushing me with its lashes this is the fever we dance to with the deep deep beat these are the eyelids we press with cooling fingers it doesn’t stop for anything, it keeps me turning it doesn’t wait for letters from the old back country it doesn’t run smoothly through the rolling machinery it doesn’t drink the things I drink, it doesn’t know from ice how do the hundreds of hours fill with brisk-eyed wanting? how do the hundreds of pages speak the dusty lines? how do the hundreds of feet stomp the ageworn wood? how do the hundreds of aches ever rest?  ------------ * today's Napowrimo prompt: Listen to a favorite piece of music and write...
Post a Comment
Read more