Where’s the A, huh?

by | Poetry

is your ragged calendar marked? some
black date crucified where I first began
to lie to you?

Or was I honest & numb &
you chose a face to fit your dreams & pre-
conceptions
over what a poet should & should not be?

                there is no great poet in this country
                                                           in this room
                                                           in this body

I’m afraid you only stand me now,
                                                                    or sit crossed-legs &
fingers drumming a writer’s desk
                                                                 when I ooze poetry,
                                congealed blood or pus from a wound
bleeding out in your company or image;

                I’ve not been paying my bills & rely on your words
to keep this room lit;
                                happy to let old scars shine on your body,
                wounds ancient Cain & Abel ancient
                                flecks of silver ‘gainst our riverbed
perfection, yourself
still waiting
for the perfect poem

                                                                                                strung up
on all the drugs I knew;
                                French, codeine, face paints, you,
                                Scarlett’s violins, Guinness, morning dew
                                acid & stage curtains, Daubigny & crow-laughter
                                a—–v— still, living still,
                                growing on this windowsill

you like long poems
I’m not strong enough to support
mighty words &
mighty works – like Shards on the
page

the poetry isn’t coming; I don’t know
                      how to tell you that; there are no
words in me
                        to cover the divine humanity of your lights
on show

                      there’s a drought while others drown
                                           & I’ve come to envy those with waters
                      in their lungs &
                      if the well is dry & our crops are dying
      you’ll take those legs, lights, snare-fingers & demands
                      & walk out the door;

                perhaps, after you, I can become a poet again.

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