Thursday, August 26, 2010


by Lisa Zaran

I won't be long
but I might be late.
Don't wait up.
The red moon is up.
Stars blink like
frightened eyes.
Guilt shackles my
naked form to life
and from the corner
of my mind I laugh
because I know not
how to react to anything
My children glint
like little lakes,
swallowing moonlight,
hiding their secrets
in centers so deep
no mother could reach
and so I choose to drown.
Fathers pass away
behind plastic curtains
in critical care units-
no more minty breath
or spinning thoughts,
my father dies delicately
quiet and all I can think
as I slip away, down the corridor
of hush and antiseptic
is why and what will I do
now that there will be no more
warm hands and glue and carpentry.
Who will fix my broken dolls?
Lovers kneel
and send flowers
while a thousand others
tear my pictures in half
before throwing them into the fire.
My heart is stale.
My love is nothing but an astonishing remark.
I'd call my latest lover perfect
but he has a scar above his lip
and his knees are weak from kneeling.
He's far from it.
Okay, I won't be late
but I might be long.
If you write, don't expect a reply.
I did not pack a pencil.


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