Poetry in the Dark: A Speed Reading Nightmare
In this dream you have fallen in love
but have never met the object of your affection,
who, as it turns out, is a fake-blonde with a tongue
like a straight razor and an attitude so negative
even shadows freeze at her feet. Life is good,
you say, but might I have a moment to dispel
this notion of poetry in the dark? Every word
blossoms bright flares, each syllable unfolds
the night, peppers the air with lightdrops
and the aroma of shed falsities. And then
your love steps in and desiccates the atmosphere.
Drops a few F-bombs, slices nerve endings,
stomps out expectation. What do you see in her,
I ask. It’s not about vision, you reply, but what I
hope to find. Think of purgatory, of broken
door knobs and the party next door. Think about
time capsules and nested dolls and what might
live around the corner, if only you believe.
Then an auctioneer starts reading your poems,
and no matter how you struggle, you can’t
describe the lure, the power, the beauty,
the insurmountable, undeniable, ineffable darkness.
* * *
Many thanks to Ken Gierke for sponsoring this poem and providing the title!
If you’d like to join in on the fun, see my September 5 post for sponsorship details. Give me a title, provide some words. Or think of another challenge! It’s all for a good cause: Brick Street Poetry, Inc.
Tomorrow’s poem is titled “We Do What We Must,” and is sponsored by Plain Jane, who, six years ago, forced me to write “Your Armpits Smell Like Heaven.”