Walking in circles, p.1
Walking In Circles
Michael Neal Morris
copyright 2009 Michael Neal Morris
Slam the door when you go
Washing the Whore
Doctor Jude Sings A Requiem
A Pause At The Eye
How to Skip Class
New November Poem
view from a car seat
An idle mind
Standing in the doorway
"Cave," "Calliope," "Washing the Whore, and "Serenade" were originally published in The Mayo Review.
"Closet" and "Slam the Door Before You Go" were originally published in The Commerce Journal.
"Slam the Door Before You Go" was also publish online at Dufus.
"Dancin'" was originally published in Orphic Lute.
is unnamable, unexplained
Whether wrapped in a blanket or rope
I cannot say.
I'm choking, but feel breath
trickle in, quietly,
like a word outside a cave
I don't know how to hear.
Follow, even my stomach says.
Lower parts concur, I'm surprised to note.
But the line between satisfaction and gluttony
is not clearly drawn. What I know
is that I'm fat. What I do not know
is how to starve.
And the hole
through which I might escape
seems to diminish. Or is it widening
so that I might squeeze out of this womb
and into joyful, tired arms?
Who can say, when I cannot comprehend
my own hand in front of me?
When I'm not looking, sometimes even
with closed eyes,
I sense your hand nearby
pulling, maybe petting,
and the inhabitants of your earth
look like trees walking in circles.
Though you call yourself giving
and I watch and listen in stupid love,
you just don't know
how much I'd like to smash your blind eye.
I want to take your sounds--
all the testicle tantalizing tones,
the hissing kissing make me wishing whispers--
and squeeze them between my avenging fingers.
You do not breathe. Nor do you hear.
But you pant, then act sympathetic,
then pant again, madly,
wildly shouting for the green orgasm
(though I'm as exciting as a banker).
When I'm spent, you do not hold me.
And your caress is as soft as electrocution.
Can I separate? I've learned to depend
on your voice of information.
You reveal the harshness of the world--
the brutal violence
with which sophomoric humans govern their talents.
Then you shelter me in the dark.
Can I give you up? Could romance
be left to pages I've ignored for you?
Sleeping with you, I've almost forgotten
(perhaps I have)
how to make and take love.
Could I let you go? I've grown used to you
and I cannot fathom the depths
of breathing beyond your choking embrace.
An addict can see the possibility
of ardor for the enemy,
but the vision to loathe your lover
sometimes intercession and hunger.
I know you need me, if only a little.
But I think I'm ready for your death.
You will not starve without me,
but may be undernourished. That's your choice.
We have lived on hamburgers and fries--
chips, when things got low--
but I must allow myself primer cuts
and bread that needs no dressing.
You have kept me
in a hazy stupor.
Now I'm looking for a clean, pure vintage;
I drink a toast to peace and freedom
bought with blood, but not my soul.
I love you. I hate you.
I wish it all was over.
I may never be at rest
until one of us sleeps under clover.
Slam the door when you go
When you go, slam the door
so I'll be sure you've left me
lying here in the barely dawn-lit room,
your shadow passing by the window.
Don't step lightly over the threshold,
but stomp confidently.
Marching is not an angry sound,
just the certain noise of going.
I'll never push you out
but try to let you go.
I'll try not to hold you in,
but I can't promise
when you're gone for good
that I won't clutch the air
where you once stood laughing.
I'll be desperately seeking
the punchline, beating my breast,
angry that I can't control
your going, loudly or softly
(please leave with a shout!)
out that hard, painful door.
I dream my legs are pinned
by my weight, motionless beneath
my gray hair, my good intentions.
I wake under a cloud
of fear and guilt and half-belief,
steal about, and talk too loud.
Walking in Circles by Michael Neal Morris / History & Fiction have rating 3.4 out of 5 / Based on17 votes