I have been writing a lot of poetry lately. In fact, it's one of those things where I do a lot of it, and then leave it alone for a little while. Recently I went back to it, and I have been writing about two poems a week, and reading the poetry of others every day. I'm thoroughly enjoying this phase, as it is a useful tool in helping me to express myself until you know what I mean. Here's my most recent poem:
Nightmare
Was I asleep?
I remember you were
talking on the phone
while I gave you a foot rub.
I squeezed the muscle and
stroked the bones of both
your feet
before I noticed that you were talking
on the phone to someone.
I was there rubbing your feet.
But by that time
I’d vanished from your life
like the last time you used the bathroom
or the delivery guy who over-charged you.
I went into the other room as soon as I realized it
and started throwing knives at the wall so hard
they stuck, while I screamed and grunted
over and over.
You didn’t come in.
you just kept talking
to a mechanical voice on the other end.
It was like the dream where you laid
your head on my chest,
playing with my braids as
I took all of you in,
meditating on your dirt,
and making it to mud, but
the rocks covered my hands in blood
and I couldn’t make it clean, as if
you were smiling and giggling at
my witless jokes and
suddenly
started yelling and bashing in my teeth,
kicking my stomach,
shouting profanities
while I choked for air.
I screamed to wake myself, hoping
to find you in the kitchen
making some pancakes
or getting a drink of water,
the aroma sweet when you’d tell me it was a dream.
You weren’t abusing me when I woke,
or raising your voice,
or making breakfast or drinking water because you couldn’t sleep.
But you had talked on the phone.
I had rubbed your feet
and threw daggers.
And by the time I was done,
you’d left.
You’d left before
you’d even dialed the number.
I wasn’t asleep,
but I’m still trying
to wake up.
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