Thursday, December 8, 2011

Page 89

Poetry,
I want you
to read me –
to flip to my single page
in this ever-growing
global anthology
and be drawn in initially by the
ink wells of my eyes
that have been dipped into
several times to write
the calligraphy of my smile.
You’ll find my first lines
brimming my underlids and flowing
with tears that glide
at night, dripping
free-versely down my neck,
my arms, my feet – the ink of the words sinking
into the different strophes
of my skin, staining
each filament inside.
Poetry, please, I don’t want you
to read me
with a lens – no postmodernism, no formalism –
but just as what you see:
macroscopic, single-spaced,
streaming consciously and enjambed
at each unpolished thought turn
the sulci of my grey matter takes.
Poetry, then scrutinize me with
a little bit of patience –
find yourself pondering
along the question marks
that these ears of mine shape
and analyze the stanza breaks between my ribs
exposing heart you maybe didn’t see
the first time.
Keep rereading me,
Poetry,
and gather all the details drawn
by the unexpected diction
carved into my mandible,
inaudible and permanent,
and decide for me my true setting.
Fold the corner, my shoulder,
to save my page,
keep me warm,
and
return to me,
Poetry.





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