'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.' Kurt Vonnegut

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Thirteen Replies to One Unasked Question


I have never asked to be pampered
with false kindness; not for the sake
of the knots in my endocrine system,
nor the illusion of heart tissue,
folded and refolded on self.


How easy it was for you
to separate yourself from me
and cast me as your enemy;
Lilith expelled, serpent at her heel.


Love resides in the forks
of our legs, feeding the appetite
of brain cells, addiction comes easy.


You avoid eye contact, even in snapshots.
The right hemisphere of your face
once belonged to me.
You kept the left for yourself, that and
your smile which you give to no one.


We bury knowledge of ourselves
in the night fields, illusive as dark matter,
even as our lives are living us.
We set a frame around guilt
and hang it on the bedroom wall,
slightly off centre.


I trusted you. I knew when I did wrong.


I don’t require this web of memory,
fastened to my cheeks and brow,
collecting dew at dawn,
hanging with dead flies
at dusk.


My female parts provide
a definition, in terms of anatomy.
I am liquid in your eyes:
part blood, part brine,
remnants of milk,
sweet honey.
This is not how I define myself.


Invasion of privacy has its price,
even in a company of apes.
We have constructed doors
to be slam-locked on the inside.
This is the price: lack of attention,
servitude of self.


I once gave my word to a man.
I haven’t seen it since:
but I have more words,
a whispered store in boxes
on high shelves. Barely accessible.


The ghost of you has worn thin.
I have rehearsed your name, my dear,
but I have forgotten my cue.


Night has fallen on our loneliness.
Lie beside me; take my breast
in your mouth. We could flex muscle and bone
to become saplings in the storm.


There is one question
you have failed to ask me.
When you do, I’ll have no reply.


Inspired by the poetry of David Huerta, in particular, his Thirteen Attempts on the Life of Trivial Love.

Linked to The Tuesday Platform at the Imaginary Garden.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Esperando en el limbo [Waiting in Limbo]

"I speak with my entire blood and from my own memories. And I am alive."
David Huerta 


A journey brought us together
at a crossroad, star-mapped, when moons spun
bright as hollowed pumpkins.

I forget the day before:
where I was, the odour of sunlight
upon the daisy path
beneath my calloused footfalls.

But every day since
is measured by the nano-silvered liquid
of my brain; suspended and expanding like
invisibly connected points of light.

Did we think to die
unexpectedly at the door of this bleak planet?
Or lose our grasp
on language so thoroughly as to dissolve
in the void, lost to these empty spaces
of in between?

Still, I call for you through closed lips, trembling lids.
       Waiting in limbo.


Grace has featured the poet, David Huerto, in The Sunday Mini-Challenge at the Imaginary Garden.
I was inspired by the titles of his collections, and his body of work, especially the poem, Nine Years Later - A Poem Dated.