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The Afterbody |
I have never learned
to follow format in a poem,
and literary style
is not my forte.
My foray into spoken word
is the narrow bed of river
in the fissure
of my seismic landscape.
It arrives direct;
a ferry ride across
canals of horror,
a deep sleep
in the dream of despair or
the raw and awesome wonder
of the nature of life.
Words charge toward me
from the borders of events.
Death nods atop the rise.
From a distance
I am insistent on my art,
but if I could I would
slit its grip on me,
its sleek, nimble fingers
wrapped around the jugular
of my retrograde longing,
my pas de duex sans obelisk,
my hands cupped around the cheek,
of my unkept faith and unmet vanity.
I am gazing back from the afterbody
to an imprint left in the black pearl sand,
and the shadow held in my empty hand.
copyright 2005
Peggy
Dobreer |
