Il n’y a pas de hors-toi

Beyond the text that is your skin
the pulsing braille I read with trembling fingers
in half light when my eyes don’t know their way
there are days of sorrow days of pain
days when the rain tells my shoulder blades
they are not good enough and I let
the water make its rivulets across my paling back

Beyond the text that is your skin
I am a chauffeur without a license to drive
I have vehicles and a suit and tie but
no where to go no where I can place my
restless hands with their white gloves folded
in my dry cleaned pristine pockets
not a speck of dirt on them

Beyond the text that is your skin
I am left with a library of lifeless reading materials
without eyes or lungs or rushing blood
I am left turning pages with just-licked fingertips
watching the numbers at the white corners
go up and up until the end when the back cover
closes on a reality only my mind can contain

Beyond the text that is your skin
I am a nervous neverland boy kissing my own hand
to practice for when you come back to this country
this place for lost children needing bare-limbed plunges
into deep lagoons and I sleep in a drawer filled
with cold silver spoons hoping one will fit me
the way your knees and arms used to

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One Response

  1. Wonderful. The images flow nicely with the form. I especially like the use of text as an image and the interplay between the drawer of spoons and the narrator at the end.

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