Transparent Words - Poetry

Brenda Morisse

Response to "Lunatic" #10

The doorknob makes a fist, threatens my latin
click and spiked dance steps. Torch songs and musk
travel with goodbyes. Dear and sorry stressed, locked
inside the glove compartment, Darkness moves in
through the rear view mirror. I drive to the reservoir.

The full night moon is a calendar. This is my red dress,
it must be spring, yes, not autumn. The president?
a son of someone, My name is a half opened door...
maiden name? birth father name, step father,
first husband, or second, the third.

The door shuts like a refrigerator. A woman screams,
she could be barking, she's driving me crazy,
all right already. A man forgets his boundary etiquette.
I know how to cross pushy giants. Grateful for Velcro,
my shoes don't flip flop. They give me medicine.

I write about the day before dying. My pencil curls up
to bad spirits, selects a grave. I snuggle into its depths
on my belly, on my side, on my back, I befriend the worms.
Out the door, birch tree mimes skin my shadow,
I tremble at their lofty chins and white paste snarls.



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