Your hair is cut as though your mother begged you not to.
I can see where she ran her hands through the locks on your mind as if she feels that you are still in her womb.
Your hair falls on itself like grass that hasn't been mowed in a few weeks
because your lawn mower is missing a blade.
You will have wrinkles by the way your mouth chooses to stretch beneath your cheeks.
And I'm not sure what your film noir eyes have seen,
but they are remembering clips from scenes apart from the anecdotes you share.
The dirt underneath his nails is not given such chances in my squeamish gut;
My intuition is tapping my ribs to the beat that your frame provides
Wrapped around me like an envelope that is saturated with your cologne-
leave me alone
I am impulsively fearful of his hands.
Of the way he stands hunched in my shadow
Boy, get your own shadow!
All I've seen of your waiting is a very careful rage
You are an animal pacing in his cage, feet padding around her in a carousel like procession of lions.
Maybe that's why she cut her hair herself.
YOU ARE READING
More Ryhme des mots
PoesíaThe reckless optimist creates sunbeams With Archimedes death rays That they do believe will result in lovely sunsets. (And most everybody burnt to a crisp is not in favor of this method.)
