Thursday, April 19, 2012

When Asked 'What's It Like?' - 19/30

Nineteen days in. And I'm tired. Buuut... gotta saddle up and finish this marathon.

So, here's today's poem. You won't like it. Or maybe you will, but I won't expect you to. 

When Asked 'What's It Like?' 

This is how it happens.
The fixtures unfortunate enough
to dangle over dimpled drywall
will rattle with the concussive thumps
that, from the other room,
send golden-framed testaments
to selective memory
to shatter face-down on the floor.

It is as if you live under an overpass,
but you do not live under an overpass.
It is no regimented clickity-clack
of trains saying their greetings
that shifts the shelved portraits,
though you wish to God it was.
It is no earthquake, though
you duck and cover
like they taught you in school.
Your hands collar your nape,
your knees two spheres of arabesques
from the carpet’s curly imprint.
You can feel the rug on your cheeks,
a thousand soft hands
offering their absorptive comfort.
You can feel your heart,
a sparrow maddened by
the bars of your childish ribcage.
You can’t hear the shouting anymore.
Or the even worse implications

of its silence.

Not so much as your pulse,

your body’s most dire defense, lulling 

It’ll be okay.

Everything will be fine. 

And you sleep, its frequent comfort
reabsorbing you like tears.

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