How do you reach into marrow through the bone?
After too many acts all the same in succession,
the smile begins to fade. I stop caring about your history,
your scars, your mysteries and rewards,
whether justice can touch you, or not.
I forget my own history--all I am is two feet and whirring fingers,
a hinge on a door opened too many times today
as the sunlight fades.
Eight hours become ten and I surrender to the inevitable
lack.
The drain has been open for too long
and I begin to doubt that I will refill by tomorrow.
In the morning, the smile cannot be so sharp,
the, "hi, how are you?" may become rushed.
This will be the daily grind, down, down
to the grit and marrow.
It will happen slowly.
My singing turned to
humming turned to
inner song turned to
inner thought turned to
quiet loathing. And the marrow will begin to show.
After a few months or years you will be accustomed to
seeing me raw.
I will be the woman of whom you say,
"if only she took better care of herself," and,
"she is like that to everyone."
No comments:
Post a Comment