"I was born in a taxicab, I'm never goin' home" --Tom Waits
Her hands are not your hands--
No more forgiving than a statue's,
They abrade and tear me
Until the sheets are bloody with my misery.
Her eyes are not your eyes--
No more soulful than elevator buttons,
I am locked in here screaming until the morning comes.
Each day is like a driverless car
Circling backward on itself in unstoppable blind murder;
Pregnant with a memory,
I give birth to a fever...
I sweat and shudder
'Til it breaks.
Now this poem is scary, sweetie,ReplyDelete
you reached deep.
Every now and then I dip into a dark well for a poem. I began this one with just the line about being pregnant with a memory, but after that it evolved in a different direction than most of mine, to be sure.ReplyDelete
Pregnant with memory, I love that!ReplyDelete
And when this profound line informs
one of my poems, you will be the
first to know -
A memory often is like a being,
held within us, birthing all
sorts of "things".
You're something very good