Blog Archive

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Epagraph Poem


Till Our Lips are Stained Purple

A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A…
                                                -The Names, Billy Collins
My mouth gaping open-

When you’ve tipped your chair,
after teetering it on the edge.
Over.
And gravity drops you at dead weight,
And the air you’re breathing pounces off the inside of your lungs,
And the ocean of oxygen surrounding you hides…

My fingers scurry, reaching in
cannot grasp my sounds-

The vibrations of swears, so desolate.
used to be a circle of understanding
spiral until it boulders
into my gut, stomach
infecting numb tissue.

The salt taste caught and carried in
from my lips enhances and pokes my gag reflex-
(if I could puke the words I would)

The rape of the world has been dubbed
[silent] 
by consistent repetitive
war poetry pounding, raging on my brain,
pushing my eyes wide and forward.

Tonight we drink wine till our lips are stained purple.