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Showing posts from February, 2013

I Don't Want a Cookie

I don’t want a cookie
or a roll.
I don’t want you thinking
I’m lost because
once I was sad enough
to write it down,
or because faces
make me cry
with the kindness
of their teeth.
It’s not for you to bear
the flaws in my voice
from a ghost I’m chewing,
when I’m more attentive
to the break in the threshold
than to your hips
in the doorway.


I think, sometimes,
that I can do anything,
but that can change on the way
to the elevator.

I prepare for outside.
Rain makes it easier,
bends my eye to the ground,
to the architecture;
turns everything to gold.
The new gravity holds me,
turns the voices into hums,
the walkers into clouds.

But outside my door,
there are voices already,
breaking through planks of wood
that should mean security,
and I’m in their path;
every word an arrow
tipped with poison.

They’re only voices.
They are not harsh;
they do not threaten.
They’re not aimed at me
at all. Yet I suspect,
hidden from me,
there are faces attached.