Wednesday, April 23, 2008

this is a poem I wrote for class three years ago.

Rose of Pain

His big toe stared back at me,
a skunk wandering the road at night,
visible in its impending death.

I stomped on it, made sure to grind it into the soil
with my stiletto.
I removed my foot from the point of damage
and viewed my work,
satisfied at the new passage to China.

I hate your big toe.
You crack your toes.
It makes me want to kill you.
It smells like the fridge-
you forgot to clean it during a 3-month vacation in Brazil.

When we lay next to each other in the night
and you touched me, it was the feeling like
falling hard into the concrete
and scraping your entire body
after hearing your father died.

Your big toe.

It would taste like the moldy milk
you left in the fridge.

There is dirt under your toe nail.
The nail is jagged and chipped.
The dark hair curls.

I want to kill you.

The sound of your approaching footsteps
Is revolting in its dirty browns and yellows.

Jesus will never forgive you.
I thought it was just a stage.
I was mistaken.

I love every inch of you.

I told my mom I loved her every day.
I really did.

I don’t love many people,
because my mom said love is liberating
and I’m a conservative.


Our family isn’t normal.

It started when the sweet
orange of faith came into town.

You gave me a rose
and I didn’t like the way it smelled.

I watched you flirt
with the cashier at the food store.
You didn’t see me.


When you come home,
I’ll rip you apart.

Sweet trash of roses.

The window was left open
to let in some air.
but ended up destroying the wood.

Shema Yisrael.

The wood was old, and that final blow killed it.

Grass lies still beneath the breath of one word.

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