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Literature Text
I've forgotten an ending.
It's one of the things they took
in those long days of dull
yellow light - a way to pinch out
the flame and watch the smoke rise
against the window at night.
I woke up with scissors
wrapped in my hand, to snip
the wick I guess, watch it fall
like leaves or paper, watch the carpet
catch. It's one of the things
they want - a conflagration,
fire from fire until nothing is left,
not even the story of how
the world was killed, only more fuel,
only more fuel. I've forgotten
an ending. All I have is beginnings
and middles as if that is hope
and happiness, as if nothing
will end again, as if I needn't worry.
But I worry I've lost
how to close things and so I
won't remember how to die.
It's one of the things they took
in those long days of dull
yellow light - a way to pinch out
the flame and watch the smoke rise
against the window at night.
I woke up with scissors
wrapped in my hand, to snip
the wick I guess, watch it fall
like leaves or paper, watch the carpet
catch. It's one of the things
they want - a conflagration,
fire from fire until nothing is left,
not even the story of how
the world was killed, only more fuel,
only more fuel. I've forgotten
an ending. All I have is beginnings
and middles as if that is hope
and happiness, as if nothing
will end again, as if I needn't worry.
But I worry I've lost
how to close things and so I
won't remember how to die.
Literature
on not knowing.
this road was ten miles long.
i traveled barefoot.
Literature
She was Beautiful
We have a daughter
called poetry
quiet with little fuss
looking up
& molding us as god.
Her small verbs
span indifferent cities,
aloof mountain ranges,
& the hours of
blank faced clocks
between sunrises.
She knows there are
worse things than dark
the black waters of the mind
are scarier.
We have created her
from love,
pressed & dried bouquets
& willow sticks
things only we
could make a life from.
One day we'll wake up
as different people
but the magic
of a shared procreation
will keep us tied
wanting to see each other's
newly patchworked faces.
We have a daughter
called poetry
Literature
Marlboro Meteorology
I can always predict the weather given how my morning cigarette goes. If it tastes like cardboard or an old apple, it will rain hard in the late afternoon. If burns the back of my nose, it will be cloudy all day. If I get a toothache it means hail and anything blowing up into my eyes means hot, humid, and sunny. My great grandmother had the same talent. If her back itched it meant snow, if her neck hurt it meant midnight rains had come and gone. Some things must jump generations.
Looking at our flowerbed, you'd think it was snowing in July. The kid above me would chain smoke and scream language learning dialogues at his computer, t
Suggested Collections
both the greens are poems that didn't really want titles, but english language convention forced titles upon them
© 2007 - 2024 manchaliaina
Comments3
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But I worry I've lost
how to close things and so I
won't remember how to die.
i love this ending.....it also strikes fear into my heart......but thats a different story for a different day
how to close things and so I
won't remember how to die.
i love this ending.....it also strikes fear into my heart......but thats a different story for a different day