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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v215) (the December 2010 Issue) |
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 Order this writing in the 2010 collection book of poetry from July-December “cc&d” and “Down in the Dirt”. |
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and yet she turned as if I’d hit her hard.
A thousand objects in that room
but she was fixed on me.
The red to her eyes was deeper than blood,
her face as pale as wax.
Blame me.
My own body not enough
I was infiltrating hers,
undoing her stately color scheme.
I drained her cheeks,
sucked dry those lips,
parched the forehead to a desert white.
And all by being in a room,
standing by the sofa and the Tiffany lamp,
and saying not one word.
Too much scarlet for any man,
this intruder tipped the overflow into her eyes.
Lack of sleep had nothing to do with it.
Hellish tears were not to blame.
There never was two separate people.
I was part of her, a hack artist,
with a restless palette.
She was in me, a failed pugilist,
pounding fists against my heart.
All I did was enter a room.
I had to. I was there already.
