REASONS YOU WON'T WRITE ME A LOVE POEM

Reasons you will not write a love
poem to me;

The dying cat holding
the chandlier reminds you
of my ovaries. The way I whisper
'lovely, tiger' pressing
my face to your chest.
I dangle my IUD
in front of the TV; my sexuality is
a horse. I tie your
hands to my metaphors-
for you. You won't write to me because
each single blade of grass is really,
the fury of my scars.

I peer into my underpants and cry.
Ask the moon to arrange
my weeds with their
foreheads touching.
You say
I need to learn
it's ok to flirt with Death, the
way I flirt with
cleavage, door knobs, tea. Cupping
each breast to your face- for you. You
tell me Death is a choice;

a)Pretend the horse in
the kitchen is not my throat and I
b) am not eating ash whilst pregnant and you
c)hold me tighter and tighter. Let go.
Your hands two sad planets. Hold tighter.

Author's Note

mine < john's hhahahhha
my baby is the best. so glad im writing again

its always going to be cathartic.

enjoy!

ps. happy anniversary, my love x

Reviews

[The_Jabberwock]

well damn. didn't see that coming. amazing piece

[KAOlmsted]

You've left me feeling awkward and uncomfortable, which is fantastic. I read most of this through my fingers. Exceptional work.

[Mark]

Dang, the imagery here is overwhelming. So much to digest. the references to a horse confused me. I love the last line 'Your hands two sad planets. Hold tighter.' wow, that's a great line!

[Marissa Brazzell]

I really don't know what to say. Good job

[h d e rushin]

"you won't write to me because
each single blade of grass is really,
the fury of my scars".

Oh my! There is this myth of the 'love poem' that so many subscribe to, a myth
i might add that is mostly architectural, that has those series of horizontal ridges
and colonnaded predictabilities that lets you just know how a thing is going to end.
Yours is a new voice, a new knowledge, a new critical examination.

Sometimes, in poetry, things and events don't fit nicely. I agree. I guess today
we call it procrustean, after the villainous son of Poseidon, Procrustes. Who
in Greek mythology forces travelers to fit into his bed by stretching their
bodies or cutting off their legs.

Sorry for making this review my own, but I get
excited by this kind of poetry.
Nicely done.
dana

[lee von cleef]

Steven, the map has been laid out , now can we straddle and stay out of the kitchen.He knows I am a sucker for horse poems ,even a pony in the kitchen is intriguing,My luck it would be a Clydesdale,Orbs or n*****s ten CD's deep, I have to read this again....

[Baby Ricochet]

LOL. Love the first line. Actually I love the whole thing. It's funny and painful at the same time. Good one

[Steven]

So... damn... good.

[shel]

It's been far too long since I've read your work...I haven't exactly been active on this site in AGES. But I am (again) amazed. Your images, metaphors & perspective are so unexpected and unique...the lines feel so delicately placed, as if you are building or planting, not merely writing...I don't know how to explain it. Your writing isn't 'easy' (in technique or subject matter), it's difficult and sometimes imposible to unravel...but it still works, and it resonates. I don't know if you post/publish anywhere else...but (in my opinion, for whatever it's worth, lol) I really think you deserve a wider audience.