That's Your Job
Is that your heart you're tearing out
and nailing to my wall in a frenzy?
A mishmash of suggestions and recommendations,
a slip of the tongue
that turns into an inferno,
the day that's already done?
I remember more than that.
Days slip by me and I am solemn,
I kneel in prayer only for you,
my lips paralyzed with a fervor of feeling,
the lips you glossed with purple grapes,
the avenues I've never seen.
Leave me alone tonight
before the door opens to release;
I like prison so much better,
the cold floor feels good under my feet.
I like sleeping in an unmade bed
with cookie crumbs surrounding me;
the sweetness of your life
and the sarcasm are too much to see,
but it's too expensive to go blind.
I can call the wind at my command
and tell it where to go,
I can see life before you know
if the womb is alive and well.
The gravestones are singing at dusk,
it's my job to wipe the dust off
and guard against the skeletons
who want to chat about the flowers they don't like.
"Do there have to be roses here?
And do they have to be red
like the blood that was shed
when I died before you were born?"
How can you wipe a tear off a skeleton?
You can't, so you make a promise
that you'll find the right flowers
to fill their hollow bones,
to answer their invisible questions.
But not on a stormy night--
that's your job.
Copyright © Linda Mortensen | Year Posted 2006
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