On the Tram Home

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
being asked to rank and objectify the one i love

Submitted: June 07, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 07, 2007



The Question

I don't have to see your face
As if to gauge it for the pageant
Or frame it in booze-tremor fingers
Like some grimacing john
Rating the plump
Assortment of speckled asses
Lined up to his milky eyes
(Just as bored and rolling as theirs)
Or like a pink, hoary don
Who grumbles in broken
Old country
Who puffs through jewelled
Fist with which he sometimes
Punctuates wife and mistresses alike

That love is to be seen
Not heard
And least of all touched
That is the question

This burqa you speak
From the other side of
Don't you see?
There's a hole where
Love goes in
There's always
A hole

Where love

Goes in
And goes in
Without even asking
And comes out without
Even prompting
And steals what you'd have given
A gathering of tears in gold bowls

And fate's hands wash the dead
On their feet
Those who walk too fast
Because their wings are bitten
With frost and eaten
By stratospheric winds

Once worshiped for being cleansing
Washing over ovaries
And through fallopian tubes
Made into sheer, near invisible

Seen only in prayers
Carefully worded
Flawlessly enunciated
Lest the bitch-goddess growl

And you wish her reign over
But not really

For then the glass would crinkle
Then break
And the fracture would spread
From earth to sky
Then sun then moon

Then you

Your rabbit body sliced in half
Starting between the thighs you
Always hated
Through the lilac of your vagina
Your lock breaking
Like first-time hymen

Through the stomach you
Once starved hunger out of
On so nice a day for a walk
Between the breasts that float over
Burlap heart
That's blown up

And popped
Just to scare yourself
And others and

And you
The fracture would finally reach you

And I'd have to touch you
To save you from plummeting
To depths that cannot be seen
Or gauged or

And you wouldn't get your wish
Or the answer to whether
I think your face is fatter

But in the witching hour
Her razor teeth scour until
You bleed between the knees

And the eyes

I see the curse cutting
Swaths across your shrinking

I don't even bother asking
Though I'd die to stroke
The skin of that hurt
But then we both are
Defined by
Our waiting

As well - our cloud-faced deferring
At long last I forget the question.

By R P Webster

April 3, 2007

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