Saturday, April 13, 2013

12/30: a day late, a poem for yesterday

A poet uses metaphors when she’s afraid
of direct honesty.  A poet never fears honesty,
do not misunderstand me, it’s just sometimes
she’s been forced into such small spaces
while the rest of the world sprawls out around her
that she’d rather tiptoe in curves than stride
straightforward to the truth.  She calls you a tattoo,
something exciting when fresh and new but also
something that fades, something that needs
touching up.  She calls you a puppy, adorable
and great for cuddles when young, but something
that grows into a sleepy old dog, carefully avoiding
any metaphors about training.  She talks about
daybreaks and opening chords to songs, about unwrapping
gifts on birthdays, talks about birth, then moves
into death, into disappointment, fade outs and sunsets
and even now I am using the third person to talk
about myself because I cannot say directly
without first writing a whole poem in metaphor
how terrified I am not only that this love could die
but that perhaps its song has already reached
the final bars, and I’m still standing here singing
but the crowd has all gone home.

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