Frank reply

Frank reply

Frankly, what is it that I must do

or say or smell like or believe in

or prove or cook or taste or pander to

or rage against or burrow inside

or dip or flavour or chastise or brew?

which river must I ford? which

drain drain? which stitches stitch?

which barrel with how much laughter fill?

which strange feeling question and in what soft voice?

what chariot can I hail? what channel swim? what still

waters can I stir and twist? what choice break?

what reins? what reigns? where can I

go? blister? heap? trail? stake?

When I am there and I have done

and you have seen and touched and tasted

and testified to my believings and my belovings

will you stand on the shore of my love

and fling your whole skin in?

Ah, I see how I must be:

As airy as a winter walk on the beach.

An adornment, like the purple girdle

of a bluebottle, I am trapped

astride tumescence even as it withers.

Not useful, yet I must endure

with more patience than I have

the insecurities of your pups.

I must stuff with sand

the voice in the shell.

I must be recyclable like rotting seagrass,

discreet as a bivalve,

sensitive and shy, a worm,

protected from venom only by proximity

and camouflage with the decor.

If I am still, I may stay with

the little blue glass jugs,  their noses

in the sand, superfluous as torn plastic

surrendered to the shore by the wind.

I must shame for my moon cycles, yet flame

for your name. Never useful, just toyed with

a little, a seagrass ball on the beach.

Roll with destiny, I tell myself,

my anger as futile as a nostril of fresh water

in the Indian Ocean.

Copyright © 2011 Cuttlewoman All Rights Reserved.

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