She's replaced you, you know...
It's funny - when I imagined myself
saying this to you, I always
pictured my hands.
Just my hands...
wrapped like a paper crane to go.
They would fold and twist
and knot and curt
and thin and thick
and squat and spade.
And I never saw anything
but the sliver screen
of my fingered wrists.
I'd stir my tea,
with too much cream,
and ignore your trumpet stare -
a nervous bow saddling my face.
But now, now that we're here...
well, I can't do anything
but watch the lines set
against your whiskers,
steeping in your eyes.
Author notes
This is not really poetic.
At all...
Comments
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I'm afraid I don't quite know where you were going with this. Your gift for the micro shines through- the interplay of language within the line is sensitively handled- but I feel like there is no aesthetic plot-line, no carrying over or evolution of sounds, intonations, and textures moving from one line to another to another. Your images are honed in very sharply, very beautifully, and very moodily- but again I feel a rather small lens darted around components of the screen. (not that that's good or bad- just an observation.) There's an incongruity with the narrator who purports only to notice her hands, and yet understands the "trumpet stare" that will indubitably surface on her subject's face when she raises her initial line of dialogue. Elucidate me on what this piece is about.
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To finally reply...
You know when you're dreaming and you are within yourself, wholly, but you still maintain a 3rd person POV?: one sees all else around him while experiencing sensation through his personal perception? [Or, perhaps, this is a phenomena, which I solely experience as a general anomaly]
Well, that is what this is.
The narrator sees only her hands but is able to simultaneously experience the sere pang of a trumpet stare through this bizarre dream-like modality of perception.
Does that possibly elucidate?
The piece is essentially just play... who really knows what it's about?
I was just playing with images, ideas, thoughts, etc. in the velvetkush
labyrinth that is my brain.
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