So life has become guided
by some crooked vanishing point
A stable drop of ink
guiding the lines like
the north star
Untangling my mess of veins
from the cluster that had grown
A ball of ideals that beat and throbbed
for years now
straightened by the fine tooth comb that is inevitability
Accompanied by the memorable taste of tears
from years ago
as I sat on my mother's bed
licking the bitter flavor of salt
Her ivory toothed comb biting
my curls in swipes
The predictable scent of Tide
coming from the sheets
How can I forget
The dance in my lips
When she said
Your head is a rat’s nest
I’m leaving this canvas as
I carve a hole in the vanishing point
Some perverse vision of sinking to swim
The dance of my veins tangle
To the beat of my heart
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2 comments:
a lot about hands and veins. i'll read over more thoroughly and say more later. also i have very similar memories of the comb thing. and the rats. but also also. my general impression is impressed. both recent poems feel very good to read. especially the hand print one.
ok. so some parts of this one feel a little awkward or confusing. the word predictable doesn't quite feel right in that stanza, though maybe it's supposed to feel uncomfortable. also i can't quite make sense of the canvas/cutting a hole in the vanishing point. i guess. what i'm seeing in this poem is a juxtaposition of a time in your life when things were tangled and curly with now when things seem straight ahead? only one possible outcome? and at the end there's a sort of rebellion against that. but the canvas imagery doesn't help me. i really do love the comb memory though. and the general idea,the way i read it.
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