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Wendy Giordano Poem
A masochist plans his own burial
You'd think our man was malarial
But a fallacy it is
'Tis pain that is his
Ado for such an actuarial
Copyright © Wendy Giordano | Year Posted 2016
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Wendy Giordano Poem
he told me he created me
when he was eight years old -
a light skinned redhead
and other distinguishing features
which now I can't recall
he said he'd like to meet me
next lifetime in the sandbox
so that he doesn't miss being
the love of my life again
it's been four years
and the crystals of that postulate
pour through the hourglass of us
sometimes cutting the edges
and stinging the eyes
at one time, our lot of sand reached so far
as to try and touch the edges of infinity
as we made love, drunkenly in the black
marriage of the sky with the sea
he said he could see me then -
not like you do with the eyes, but
like when you are a spirit in a vessel
searching through a world of unfamiliar bodies
looking for someone you knew before
there we were, in awe of each other
with the hourglass suspended
long enough to decide that we were going to
build and destroy castles here together
for at least the next seventy years
and when time started up again
reality hit like the crashing waves
around us, and surrounded us
and put our infinite world back
into a sandbox, threatening to bury us there
the world can play like a storm
of waves against the shores of a life
eroding what we think is so solid
and it sometimes washes over us
with a flood that we didn't prepare for
and sometimes I'm drowning and alone
wondering if this sandbox that we called home
reaches far enough to bridge
the gulf and the east coast
Copyright © Wendy Giordano | Year Posted 2016
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Wendy Giordano Poem
there is an unpredictable anger
etched like a still-frame nightmare
where my childhood plays out
frame by frame like a view master
this ever present slideshow
waits for me next to the abandoned pillow
which I have claimed like a forgotten city
and between us, it's the only thing we trust
and this anger leaves sub-dermal stains
the type of tattoo that goes straight
through the bone, eats the marrow
and goes right for the soul
this cast iron imagery haunts me
and belongs only to my memory
void of motion or anything auditory
buffering and refusing to play out
but I know if I could just hit play
that I'd finally see or hear the
magic words that trigger this sense
of panic that takes over me
in those unpredictable moments of anger
that appear out of nowhere
like estranged family coming back
to make a shredded nest in me
coloring my world in polar ideology
where everyone is a hungry lion
with a taste for Christianity
and my own metaphors make me question God
but it's not your God I question
not the one that sits in the box seats
eating hot dogs and drinking beer
making bets with the Devil on any given Sunday
it's the God that lives inside me
and keeps pushing this body like a shield
into the line of fire and begging me
to save that little girl from the next scene
Copyright © Wendy Giordano | Year Posted 2016
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