She drifted away with his cigarette smoke before he could catch her
Imprison her
In a green glass jar.
How long will you be gone, he asked,
Not looking up from violent but quiet scribbling in his book.
His pencil plundered a stick figure, a dead flower.
Till the silver on my anklet fades
Till black doesn't hurt anymore
Till when the ship sails off my shoulder
Then I'll be back for more, she said.
A knife glinted, his hand a ready, righteous Brutus
Her skin a sheen of love, glowing, nonchalant
Till he knifed a lost ship and tainted the brown of her shoulder
"No sailing away for this one. Ever," he said
Grabbing her snake-hair and pouring her
As she sighed in relief, into the green glass jar.
*****
Imprison her
In a green glass jar.
How long will you be gone, he asked,
Not looking up from violent but quiet scribbling in his book.
His pencil plundered a stick figure, a dead flower.
Till the silver on my anklet fades
Till black doesn't hurt anymore
Till when the ship sails off my shoulder
Then I'll be back for more, she said.
A knife glinted, his hand a ready, righteous Brutus
Her skin a sheen of love, glowing, nonchalant
Till he knifed a lost ship and tainted the brown of her shoulder
"No sailing away for this one. Ever," he said
Grabbing her snake-hair and pouring her
As she sighed in relief, into the green glass jar.
*****
@TRQ - The words are beautifully woven together and create a vivid imagery, except that, try as much as I could, I couldn't figure out who / what 'she' is. (I've read it over and over again innumerable times).
ReplyDelete*sheepish grin*
-OT
To answer that OT, here's a reply, albeit not mine. It says everything I want to say to many people, including myself, when I read a poem.
ReplyDeleteIntroduction to Poetry
Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
*****
That said, inboxing you on FB.
LOL. That was nice; now I don't dare ask any poet what her poem means.
ReplyDelete