My Dead Mother Talking To Me
How can I make you stop from where I am?
I am only three feet above the floor.
My heels could rest on your ribcage and you’d never know,
Never feel the indentation, the hot pressing like an iron.
You ask to see me all the time but I can not give you that.
I can give you music, manipulate the sound waves
Into playing our song, our Irish sinking ship song,
Scrape the wall with just a feeling, and make
My photograph fall to the floor and startle you.
I can do many things you are not aware I can.
I whisper in your ear but you think it is yourself.
I wrap my arms around your chest but you think
The pressure is your panic and you swallow sedatives
Like you would a box of chocolate truffles.
(unfinished) 2/3/07
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1 comment:
Hey Yahn. Beautiful poems. I mean effing awesome. Are these the two you sent to the contest? Hope so!
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