Thursday, August 7, 2008

Love Story

"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.



Cynthia said...

Now this poem is scary, sweetie,
you reached deep.

Fireblossom said...

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.

Cynthia said...

Pregnant with memory, I love that!

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