Sunday, May 6, 2012

Planes

This was written a few weeks ago, while I was "listening" in one of my classes. I'm trying transition back into writing, particularly poetry.


*****
 
Your clothing falls from your shoulders,
too big, standing away
from your body, stiffened by hanging
too long in a closet,
but I don’t see
the planes of cloth
encasing your torso
but the hollowness underneath,
the shadow tucked inside your collar,
the curve of your spine, your ribs
expanding inside the soft coolness
like when we were young,
and would make tents in the lilacs
with crisp, old sheets
and lie on the grass
together, like a secret
world all our own,
but now you’re encased, so far
away, inside cotton broadcloth—
a door I can’t open, a fence
I could not jump—
and you feel like a wall
I’ve pressed myself against.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Home

It’s too late. 

My feet have learned the pattern of the carpet, 
my fingers worn 
shiny patches on the knob.
I know how the furnace 
smells in January 
and how the coolness of my bedroom 
tastes in August. 

I have stood barefoot 
on kitchen linoleum 
eating cereal out of the box 
and spilled blood 
in the bathtub 
while shaving my legs. 

It’s too late. 
This, too, is home.