it's not finished or polished at all, i know,

but. it's been a while since i've written a poem i remotely don't mind. hm.


truth be told
april 20 1982 2001

where i live, there’s always rice on the floor.
sirens go off and on as he sleeps; i’m kept
awake. his knees shake
inside the sleep. this fleecey snow,
wet and untidy, he drifts. his hair seeping,
singing to my skin. here is his
unaware lullaby. goodbye, i gesture,
mimicking the idiocy of a mime. but i’m the
housewife; i kiss dishes. i maintain a clean
toiletbowl, as if caring for waterfowl
in an aviary. but not so exotic,
i miss him so. i wait to hear him talking
in his sleep; afraid, bewildered, i shove
dishrags and face towels
to the cracks at the bottom
of the door. i don’t sleep soundly.
i lie awake, squirming through tile scratches,
door bangs, angry kitchen cabinets. always i hear the
reclusive dribble of sound,
the mottled leaky tap. i lie awake, fingers caught,
edged arm bones like flint, painful, traumatizing.
i sneeze out my worry. fistballed, upset, unkempt.
i cry quiet. pray through the movements. turning,
tussling with myself my bedsheets. a prayer, a prayer so
humble and selfdefeating. twisted within
like a desert for
the conjoined twins; pick a pair of person,
lovers or something like it. leaving me.
curled inside my novenas, mantric and desiring.
dreamt of wiping out the muted tones
through the blinds, painted over
shackled speckled planes,
lying on floor boards, tummy-trusting,
kissing felled trees. fighting the furnace
once again. pantsless. all of these prayers. all of these.

i lie awake. i lie awake. i lie i lie i lie
awake.