no, not right now.
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
i was only watching the curtains burn,
only following the ants under the magnifying glass.
i was only using my skin like tree shade,
only slow dancing from my eyes,
i was staring at the sidewalk wondering what it’s like to fry.
i only wanted to hang over the window,
to tell the morning, no, not right now…
to feel the grip of your hands pull me hard to both sides,
unbutton my blouse, pull it hard to both sides.
i was just waiting for the floor to soften
like cake guts, like a handful of someone else’s hair,
like hot rain on a spiral notebook.
i was loosening the floorboards,
i was reading through the walls,
i was only watching the window fog,
only writing your name backwards,
only waiting for the glass to stop breathing.
don’t tell me what it’s like to have ash in your hair,
to dream debris or to rebel in rubble.
don’t tell me something that won’t still be true after you say it.
that book died of a lit match
and i still got the rest of the pack
so we don’t speak anymore.
you were only setting the curtains on fire,
only praying on a magnifying glass.
2 Responses to “no, not right now.”
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Jillian Says:
August 14th, 2010 at 2:05 amAmazing. That’s a poem my eyes are hungry for.
The curtains line reminds me of Black Boy.
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Aysha El-Shamayleh Says:
August 14th, 2010 at 8:24 amgirl, thats a fly ass poem!
