The Call

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


c. 2016

Submitted: August 19, 2018

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Submitted: August 19, 2018

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Hello again, how nice of you to visit! It has only been a month

Since your last assault. Nevertheless you have returned with your effects.

 

I can always tell it’s you by your walk, a familiar knock I dread and yet

I let you in. You’ve come to redecorate in fashion of the season: rank and red.

 

Hand me your handbag, let me lug your luggage up to your mausoleum room,

While the fatal marigolds are vased and the new curtains are hanged.

 

You say you may stay the weekend, you may leave next year, you may take me with you

If I pay my own way through. But I have become too rare for the stratosphere,

 

I might scatter up there, I might never coalesce in that thin air.

Let me pour you some tea. The bitter taste will evaporate away in a day

 

And you will replace it with something sharp and sweet. O Persephone,

This dalliance has dragged on too long, this tired affair, this carrying on–

 

You say I am free to leave if I please, but still you steal each evening,

Consume my nights. Your fingers linger in the daylight–must you take the whole of me?

 

I may have been feline once with nine lives to give. Still I live. And you,

Cancer of the corps, can’t you see that you’re not welcome anymore?

 

Yet you always turn up at my door. You’ve placed your scarf on the hanger,

You’ve settled in quite well. Have a glass of champagne; I remain.


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