Friday, December 11, 2009

new poem

"December 11th, 3:55 am"

I stood by the door, half-open,
trembling, listening to
you make noise in there
with him.

I knew you better when
your hair was shorter and
a different color, when
your head was full of smoke
and my belly full
of downers.

I often wonder why I
feel pain in both of
my shoulders, but then
I remember
that my body is full of poison
and that I fell off the sofa.

Sophia, I am withered and
beaten by your infernal wisdom.

These frostbitten urchins
are all my children, and I
have been hiding in my room
for as long
as time has bloodied them.

There is also a painting
of birds behind the desk
of Dr. Richardson.
My poor mother sent me
to him

because she thought I
was going to kill myself.

Dr. Richardson says that
every person is like a puzzle
with missing pieces, and that
some people are missing too
many pieces
and it's his job
to find those pieces and
help his patients put
together their own unique

Being with Dr. Richardson
makes me want to
swallow all of my
mother's klonopin
and wake up in a
foggy heaven

with all of my dead dogs.

1 comment:

profoblivion said...

I know this poem isn't about you. But I want to know how a poem that isn't about you can be so good? I'm missing pieces of myself, too. I love that line. I love them all. I read them over and over. But no matter how many times I read them, no absolute truth or meaning is revealed to me. Is that what makes a poem great?