rain falling thick through the house that the sound of rain replaces even that little drop i need now only that like a branch to a tree once rooted now lost in recriminations and virtual friendships which really aren't at my desk i pretend while i view them being herded into groups i being object of negative attention i believe or none at all just quiet on my side of the screen lost in language devoid of touch forever behind a screen no fields no streetlights no way to sweep clean a self which has been ignited with all that is un-tender in this poetry world which feigns tenderness as if story is a liquid river rather than a continuous non-ending friendless rose to live this life thorned and beautifully colored so as to bring the hand close to where it shall bleed still cream cheese on a bagel a cup of tea can be had in fantasty in solitude as well rejected from that desperate circle not heard there my original reason for writing to be heard not heard by the writers my original reason not heard by the same
the mind a rim if not riverbed
choosing not to speak to spawn the bleak memories of fishes pulverized
into mist shadow infected by elimination of sadness inner particles of
pain touch me so i'm real all that's been done has been pulverized in
the chest the leakage of which touch me so i'm real as my mother
picking lint up from the floor and i seeking food from another source
went to the riverbed where ovaries know me as not seeking their
command and now dried by the sunshine of forever am childless of she
who would have been like me to myself
Bobbi Lurie's third poetry collection, "Grief Suite" is forthcoming from CustomWords. Her other two collections are "The Book I Never Read" and "Letter From The Lawn."