I will only speak to you with other's words, from now
until this exile is over. I'm always sending myself into exile,
tying up my wrists and curling up in a straw-filled crate
with a destination stamped on it
in perhaps a green dress that dances when I walk.
What Denomination are you, and of what Political Persuasion?
and my only answer is a sort of lost sound like what the wind
says when there are no people on the sideroad, only a bit of paper.
So they try once more, with What is your Occupation and your--
but I interrupt: Stop! Stop! Don't you see I have none?
And I break eggs and cinnamon and a cup of sugar
into a bowl and the crust rises golden and crisp for me and
you to sleep on until we arrive at wherever it is I've sent us.
Intermission/Medical Impossibilities
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And then the others ask you, "Are you one of those Virgins Forever?" (because a few years is forever) or "Oh, you're Christian" - which is not really a statement, more of an outline they have constructed of Jesus that now fits you - and then you want to climb into a shoebox and let someone else wear you for a while, someone you can easily camouflage against and watch the world from, without blinking in bewildered uncertainty.
ReplyDeletewell.. no. I prefer to make exile cake and I know I'm spoiled because I never went to highschool, where the fierceness of the ignorance of people is so hard to fight, but I think I've learned to have more disdain for it than if I had have gone.
ReplyDelete"you" never means "you." it is a purposeful mistake, pretty with presumption. sickly sweet.
ReplyDeleteI knew it didn't mean me.
ReplyDeleteI knew that.
Sometimes "I" doesn't mean "I".
ReplyDeleteThat's always fun.
please write! please write!
ReplyDelete