Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Mar 2012 John Mahoney
abcdefg
I.

I'm a growing polliwog,
not a butterfly--

pickled legs hang off of my fish body
and gills close off so rapidly.
A minute ago I could caress the water
and make oxygen bubble in my throat. Now

beating,

pulsing

lungs intrude
like pink bubble gum ready to pop.


What a sadistic word,

oxygen.


II.

After a little nap in a sleeping bag
butterflies are monarchs,
stained glass fluttering perfection,

symbols of luck,

symbols of
beauty,
Their wired bodies are scribbled together
like starving supermodels.


III.

And my seams are

!slowly!  

pinching themselves open,
a la Frankenstein.

I want to think these body parts are mine:

A tentative nose,

very green pointillism eyes
with lashes like brittle grass or bent nails,

These white playdough thighs,
and stretchmarks like remnants of lace
chewed up by my insane canine.

Pink.
Dainty and tangled on my legs,
I think they look like jet-streams lit by sunset.
artlessly
i cast my thoughts into space
deliberate obfuscation
small metaphors and speculations

i do not keep
written records of my follies
they arrive at the speed of light.
belonging only to themselves.
flickering blazing dying
ashes to ashes
settling dust.
for all our past, the future's come undone.
no longer can love's hope reverse our fate
no empathy, no longing in the heart,
no turning back, the clocks no longer keep
the time we lost while wandering hand in hand.
we set our course, but manifest the split -
no looking back ... there is no truth in it.
is the illusion of love
preferable to love no longer?
even a shriveled heart
dry as a prune
grows plump with tears
for what is not there.
Next page