I.
I'll rechristen you, probably something that
I'll later regret, even later forget.
I'd like to tape record everything you
say, to think about the symbolism
later. You know, if you talk for long
enough, you'll rhyme sometimes.
And I don't think that's anything
to be ashamed of, because good
accidents happen all the time.
II.
I always waste the happy accident,
afraid someone will try to tell me that I
did it on purpose. I think it was an
accident when you held my hand, but
I'm not sure if I could call it happy. You
always smell sort of smoky, and so do
your hands, and it gives you a sort of
accidental air, like you were falling
lightly through life, letting moments fall
and break, splitting open like flowers.
III.
I want to twist my hands over the rest of
your body to find the place where you
keep little hateful things that you pretend
you don't have. Press down hard on the
spot with fingers and maybe it'll hiss out
like sickly steam from a kettle. I'll cup
them in my hands and you'll refuse to taste
them, acting like you never knew they
were there. You pretend you're incapable
of a lot of things, but you know the tastes
too well.
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
I.
I'll rechristen you, probably something that
I'll later regret, even later forget.
I'd like to tape record everything you
say, to think about the symbolism
later. You know, if you talk for long
enough, you'll rhyme sometimes.
And I don't think that's anything
to be ashamed of, because good
accidents happen all the time.
II.
I always waste the happy accident,
afraid someone will try to tell me that I
did it on purpose. I think it was an
accident when you held my hand, but
I'm not sure if I could call it happy. You
always smell sort of smoky, and so do
your hands, and it gives you a sort of
accidental air, like you were falling
lightly through life, letting moments fall
and break, splitting open like flowers.
III.
I want to twist my hands over the rest of
your body to find the place where you
keep little hateful things that you pretend
you don't have. Press down hard on the
spot with fingers and maybe it'll hiss out
like sickly steam from a kettle. I'll cup
them in my hands and you'll refuse to taste
them, acting like you never knew they
were there. You pretend you're incapable
of a lot of things, but you know the tastes
too well.
Request permission to use this poem