She was so high on her chair and heels
She was running like on water and wheels
She felt so bad and kind of sad
When I didn't shake her hand
She was all time then on a different band
It was like me trying to grow Flowers in Sand
It was supposed to be an interview,
But she was being the interrogator with a point blank view
To me it was more an interrogation than a meeting
Like if you speak, i won't forgive
She asked questions like it was me v/s her
She didn't accept all that I talked
Like with my facts she was shocked
She took my misery as a myth
Like I was less human more a filth
She doubted me being alive and narrating how and why
To all human rights just a good bye.
Who are you voting for?
What do you mean?
In the next election?
Which one?
The presidential election.
I don’t know.
You are not voting for her are you?
I don’t know.
Tell me you are not voting for her.
I am secretly thrilled there is a her.
I feel the men have done more than enough, so I always vote for a her if I can.
Ambidextrous names on a ballet annoy me; there should be an M or an F next to it.
I can see this would not bode well for me to share so I do not.
The other person in the room is laughing now, realizing I am not sharing.
My interrogator turns towards the only him in the room, my husband.
Who are you voting for?
I do not have to tell you he says bravely.
Yes you do.
No I don’t.
But she keeps it up,
And so he folds.
Which is why
No one tells
Him a
Secret.
THE TRUTH
Looking in through the window I knew I knew
They lied about fire. What’s new, what’s new?
The mother’s hated husband for a long ago
But where would she go, where will she go?
The father couldn’t answer a one question
He looked like a frozen dummy. He got a message.
They both knew the truth, but lied. They lied.
The poor boy was scared. He cried, he cried.
T’ interrogator asked them to tell the truth.
He did not want them share the true news.
The couple was united as never was quiet
They tried to be protective for a poor child.
Copyright © Tatiana McCollum, 2013
E-mail: [email protected]
November 6/2013
arriving to shun that wolf
on your blood’s trail,
you comb through rubble,
tormented :
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………
glimpse of fear,
fixated at otherness of yellow sin,
threatened, panic white,
suicide note;
now you have come out from your tremors
stillborn, sine die
………………………………………………………………………………
with umbilical cord around your neck,
squeezing,
choking,
after shocks settling on interrogator :
I am running aground in deep waters
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
and your body becomes a boat
of terror, disbelief, later a collaboration
with seeds and birds, this smelt side
of truths, I regret my art
SATISH VERMA
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