the doors here don't close.
they're swollen with rain
like lights bruised with moths.
the sun throws a bone at the dog
and the dog throws a tantrum at me.
in the hollow of its bark i find the echo of a limp:
a speeding car, a hot iron rod, a rabid taste.
there's a pulsating gap between me
and my family, where what they don't know
collides with what i can't tell them.
feels like i'm walking on eggshells
that, occasionally, flare up into shards of glass.
when indifferent, i feel like an accident.
when i care, i feel like a mistake.
i'm a door swollen with hate
enjambed by rigorous, frigid kindness.
i won't close. you'll be seen. art quickly.
when you say art, asks keene
do you mean act?
no, i reply, chewing on my bone
throwing a tantrum at the sun.
~ ajay
19/12/2023
YOU ARE READING
ways of slowly dying ~ poetry
Poetry"life is slow dying. so are their separate ways of building, benediction, measuring love and money ways of slowly dying." ~ philip larkin
