the house is a cold infestation of white and you are the burning of the walls.
don't you get it?
you are sticky to the eyes, the hands
whereas she
she: stainless steel in her backbone and
those white curtains that hang in meticulous
androgynous folds
almost brushing against the floor.
the interior Designer was kind, but certainly not generous. her gifts are blemish-free. they are. they are. but look! there
you are...
the house has the wrong approach, her echoing skeleton is not what attracts our primal
urge the
longing to touch what has been left untouched, the last piece of the last home we might be blessed to walk through, a girl, a gift
even passerby on the sidewalk look wide-eyed, twice,
you, mounted on her bony framework
they wonder the bold splashy question,
soothing their pounding red bodies because the paint still looks fresh.
how soon will they know
if they can knock?
Author notes
wrote this at two in the morning so it's a bit off but i generally like the theme...waiting for some originality so I can pull it together.
A contest entry
- I want to be the door by Number 13.
900 points, ended December 20, 2008, 19 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Do you love it?
Comments
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Nice job, thanks for entering.
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As the reader I am first interested in who "She" is...whether it is personal or not...that changes the crux of this prose poem. There is definitely a contrast going on here..."you" and "she." One a mess, one perfect...on the surface at least.
I s "house" the "you," the "she" or yet a third object? It's intriguing...it seems to read like "house" is "she." So "you" is...the "door." That makes sense...HEY, STOP LAUGHING...TO ME IT DOES!
Cool, I figured it out...I mean to my satisfaction...interesting that while the door seems uninviting, so does that sterile house...no wonder no one dares knock.
This is different, talented, original, Caoimhes Sinish...even Yemish.
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