narrative poetry

We were all

we were all so damn

tired

sat and looked up at the

ceiling

there was a crack that

ran, from the East corner – at least that was the decided

direction – ragged across to the can light.

the crack did it – broke the bulb –

that is

what was decided.

cold

was what we all were

rapturously

frigid and snorting

all the coke we'd ever want

from off the ceiling.

But the stuff that fell in the crack,

we knew we'd never reach.

Walking on my hands

ran through dewing grass

feet cold, and colder,

and we all jumped and danced and coaxed

the moon

out from behind his mother's clouding apron,

to warm us.

And I would stretch my hands up

and thrust forward,

a pausing solute, to all before me

and march

on my hands, as the moon guided them

under my feet.

I can walk on...on...on...like this

who can best me?

not the bestest ack-ro-bat

or Peter Pan

I could walk...walk...walk...like that

on my hands—when I was young—but now

my feet are warm.

She knew she'd never be that woman

for an hour she had been held in the room

solely of her own

free will

.

The light began gnawing at her eyes

she felt the humming

hum hum

of the room

around her

lulling her more and more

awake

she was a woman and could stand

on her own two feet,

but didn't feel

like it.

The woman wanted to be a little girl

again, and lay on her bed

and imagine him cascading

towards her on a white horse – definitely white,

but he would have brown hair,

or black

she couldn't decide.

But she was a woman, and could stand

on her own two feet.

So she shut herself in the room

solely of her own locking

to craft something

sure to make

her.

..

the girl was sitting at the piano,

and felt so small,

so small,

when she thought of the woman

who had won the honors

last year in Moscow.

She knew it would never be her.

she'd never be that woman.