2012/06/24 § Leave a Comment
On the theme of the last word
The poets I know
are biting their cheeks.
Their tongues button down
in the slick bed between teeth,
their eyes are a fourth of an inch deep
and trying not to do anything.
we were blood everywhere,
the darkness at the end of the tunnel,
apocalypse coming down the aisle to read,
building a bonfire to heat the room.
Once sparks flew out of our mouths
and we didn’t call it spit.
Once we read like every human heart
spoke a language universal as neon.
The poets I meet
write poems about their dreams,
walks to the market, or over a bridge.
They don’t want to hear about Victoria’s cancer
making a chalkboard of her body,
or the stillborn baby softly slipping out
like a sausage from the casing,
or the birds and fish wearing slickers of oil
on the shuddering ocean,
or how the position of the sun
makes you sadder than anything.
My church has divided.
The terrible wits, brain-wigs, are trying to wash off
the kind of stain that comes out of me.
What we tried to build between the heart and the mic
is a song being forgotten, a palimpsest of feeling.
I have a recurring dream,
where my eyes won’t open
more than just a tiny slit.
Carrie Seitzinger is a poet living in Portland, Oregon.