Saturday, November 22, 2014

On stopping my writing to you

What if my first writing was a lie
the very first attempts at cursive, jokes of destiny toward
happenings I can no longer hide or paint over with a thick brush
thick colors, maroon and ocean blue over the damage that leeks from images
hues deeper than I can understand at a fragile age

it is a possibility, don't you think that rocks cannot stop bleeding
the way stitch-and-needle. Sewing is a way of reattaching
two ends of earth together, like bridging gaps that become without question
definitions of lack.This technique has been tested on punctured intestines too
I have seen the news of you. This sewing is too good, it works unlike my Teta's,
my grandmother's advice; she rubs olive oil on three-inch wounds,
olive oil has been her plaster, words have been mine.

No, you cannot rent my pen to write pages of lament and eulogies
to your bullet-holed poppies, and to the wheat crushed under foreign boots
when such delicateness dies and you chose the sword, all mightier
don't crawl back to ask for a pen, brittle or red with fury
Me and my pen,we are free of you, only because I chose my distance

I shall stop in instant my failure at addressing you in writings,
I will burn the letters, destroy the pictures and stop listening to the radio
like I can't because it is beeping an end of another life,
another house crumbling like a five year old's Lego, and a family is in the rubble
 as I head towards my classroom to learn how to write
you, worst is Teta's olive oil burning brown, going down the drain
what's happening to me?
I don't want to know what happens to you.

I live you, eat you, preserve you and now I want to revoke you
the way a body hisses at poison. I am tired because I know you deserve better
and I know I can no longer make you beautiful, make-up doesn't hide disasters
Well, maybe I need sleep instead of these ramblings onto cropped ears,
Maybe this is another lie I try to cover the only way I know
with words.

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