from behind your bedroom door
in the dark of this too early morning
hooting, hissing, drumming the wall
with your heels, rolling
all your words come now:
dog. daddy. cracker. ball.
sssssssssssssssssssssssss
sounds we attached to things, and that you accept
air: just stuff we made up. not like before
when you would blow your wet speech
bubbles of curdled milk, painting
sleeves, pillows, her neck, everything
foamy white, like some insane depression-era comic
about a frustrated mime:
"howzat?"
"speak up kid!"
"lettuces? why din't ya' say so?"
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4 comments:
cracker? really?
"when you would blow your wet speech
bubbles of curdled milk"
What a good lil' Tom.
I adore this poem. It makes me think of the late Utah poet Laurete's Ken Brewer's poem called "paranoia, maybe". It's beautiful like that. Here's a link to it if your interested.
http://weberstudies.weber.edu/archive/archive%20A%20%20Vol.%201-10.3/Vol.%205.2/5.2Brewer2.htm
By the way, it's the last stanza that reminds me of your poem.
TR- yes "cracker". and now "apple (bappel)" and "Ash". plus, hissing! and he honks noses readily when invited.
thanks Cate. a comparison to Ken Brewer is always a compliment.
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