An early memory. Ribbons
of smoke curling
past the lamp.
Gin and tonic
and lipstick on the glass
and laughter.
You, slender as a reed,
fraught with a need
to be more than you
can be.
Laughter brandished
like a sword. Smoke curls
against the door,
circles three times
and makes its bed in
whomever you've become.
Your skin hangs
on your skull,
yellow teeth and pale
bones beat a dying rhythm.
I look into your eyes
and hear them pleading.
You look at mine.
Can you hear them scream?
How long must we watch
as you eat yourself
from within? How long
before the smoke
no longer lingers?
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2 comments:
Outstanding read..."fraught with a need to be more than you can be".. "Laughter brandished like a sword". Great lines. An excellent read.
The name of the poem and then the picture left me with mixed signals that left me ambushed with that powerful opening image:
of smoke curling
past the lamp.
Gin and tonic
and lipstick on the glass
and laughter.
Where itr goes, ah that is the secret of poetry, the surprize polished into the formal informality of words. It needs a guitar floating outside the sense of the poem that moves in that eyefetching way that life moves:
Smoke curls
against the door,
circles three times
and makes its bed in
whomever you've become.
And then the poem moves from the overtly phenomenological into the existential mindscape. one that seems to come from helpless love and make your poem work. Tell me more about it and its question:
How long
before the smoke
no longer lingers?
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