berna whole

 

later on the guy begrudgingly reads my poem,

which was not necessarily what i wanted from him in the first place.

what changed his mind?

i accepted his lack of want, so why’d he read it?

a guy who goes back on his word.

another disappointment, but i don’t let on.

he glances it over while fondling his computer

and i play busy while he reads,

wondering what he thinks

wondering if it stinks

wondering if he thinks it stinks

i wonder if he thinks?

i think i stink.

my eyes burn a clean white hole

in the back of his neck and he turns around,

puking excuses about why

he’s not into poetry.

a knot in two

 

i finally get up the nerve

to ask this guy

to look over my poem.

no, he says, i’m not into poetry.

not a no thanks,

not an i’m busy, maybe later,

but an i’m not into poetry.

he didn’t get that i’m not only showing him a poem

he didn’t get that these are not just words on paper

what i wanted to show him

was my soft jellied grey brain gone daft

what i wanted him to see

was this bright red blood spilling from my womb

and onto the floor

what i wanted to share with him that morning

was not even about poetry

i was reaching out for something

an infant in search of mother’s elusive breast

i wanted to share

my foul, written vomit

i wanted to show him

my longest curling shit

that no one would believe

unless they saw it

with their own eyes

another thwarted attempt

at human contact

as he’s not into poetry.