PIANO
Allison Eir Jenks
My life is half-ripe.
A still bitterness in my eyes.
Too conscious if I fake a laugh.
Driving on lit highway lanes with
a heavy bag of love letters
full of confessions to read again.
Picnicking with the burdens of before,
clinging to a polishing wind, fastened but frail.
I'm Crazily hounded by love's royalties,
hiding in Rumors and the flooden dunes
I let men put me through.
Now I'm so addicted to beginnings that I
stretch them on too far
and keep looking for the next whirl
All screwed up about which version of
love I've felt is the right feeling but still
sick and ready to play again.
I play you sedately as you slip
on my over-spiced laugh
like you're not vulnerable to all
this freakish world's ecstasy.
Believe I'm screaming.
I don't look at calendars,
TV. Never. Dressed in defenses.
I haven't worn a watch in years
this huge part of me is bent; irrational.
Guys are always telling me that.
With every stroking of your freakish talks
quarrels and kinks stoop over me,
unfastening my dinosaurish kisses.
The feelings have all been there
in the beginnings but wasn't it all
just about timing.
Night pulls down it's Sandalwood skies on me.
I sleep into night to avoid this yawning land.
I still don't want one-dimensional minds
At least I've learned that much.
I don't watch today as
sage and crimson casually pour
from my Glory-full chin.
My stomach Sings loud operas of that
loud, squirmy jive we live
when we're in love.
The greenness of the piano warms me
with the brilliant strength
of tough November leaves.
I can't play the notes
though I feel I should.
