Moving about without notes, afraid.A Poem by h d e rushini'm on the sofa writing poems. And I never do it there, like I never listen for the phone in the shower. Something my mother would scold me about still rings. "electricity will scald the back of your hand" she warned. Was it Plath or her admonition that loosened the doll grip? Then one day I decided to immerse the entire thing in the tub, almost afraid like being alone, entering the woods behind a strangers house. Whatever. We don't sit together much anymore; the lie bumps on our tongues soothing the pain of the other. Silence warms the present, yet far away like exiting Detroit from I-75, the lights make you think a paradise had just survived the apocalypse. I was wrong about your alma-mata being a hoard of hicks. Not a half bad poem, I mused with Maury Povich blaring, proving, once again that the Black guy with the gold tooth is indeed the father of the chubby cheeked child with the girl with the graduated wig almost the color of reprisal. I'm afraid, this time, I've run you away for good. Maury has the paternity test back from the lab. I drag the electrified phone to the edge of the tub. My damp body aches for you.
© 2018 h d e rushinReviews
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