Untitled
Lisa Hemminger
I don’t know when it is you write
but you’ve offered up your mental curves
and like the physical world of girls
the truth is told: you’re curved very well.
That is all I glean I am allowed to know.
I wanted to yell at you out loud, you
know, when you roll eyes like mean
dice above someone’s best efforts, when,
years ago you and all your force
chose men to lead your lives of sheets.
Week after week you sit in seats where
people pay attention. I’ve paid too -
I’ve melted on your entrance, I’ve sighed
on your walk-through smile when there
isn’t any more. I’ve hunted for clues
to the midriff mystery, I’ve watched
absent men go hysterical for you, I’ve
turned a swollen lung to you and
placed in your care, my daughter, my
son. I do not know you, you’ve shown
off your way to be blank as a 19th
century computer screen, when you say
none of us know you, we all knew that.
I don’t know where it is to home you go -
I have waved away the Jub Jub Club,
turned from men who would have me be
their God, missed your parties, turned
you down, but in evening gown you have
returned and that is more than fair.
I don’t know how it is you live your life but
I have shaken my head at shared moments
of strife - the creatures that
spring from your mouth tell me why.
We have very few bridges connecting us two,
but in the planks that sway no lies lie
in wait in the hinges.
I don’t know when it is you
write, but we live in paralleled
inkdrawn swirls. There we are webbed,
swim forever and meet. I have given
you pens in respect and you return the
practice gladly.
