Candidates
Melody obligates itself to pain.July 1937, your father is born.
Let's sing. Let's hum something
even if we don't know the song!
It happens every day, the same
crossing of birth, souls reunited
or perhaps it's just the availability
of med's, we should feel so inspired!
Tomorrow we shall throw wisdom
to the dogs. Dogs without names
of course, for once we name them,
they're ours.
I can not pretend to know anymore
than this. I can not proclaim to have
answers to the questions not so much
surrendered but spit into the air.
My mother has a nervous laugh.
My father is an artifact.
My sisters' slaughtered thoughts multiply
like flies inside my heart.
My children will be my epilogue.
Pounds and pounds of myself shall be flung
like dried flower petals to the wind, my soul
will be that fish you see flopping about
on the sand. Poor fish.
I shall not be a candidate
for any one thing more than any other.
Perhaps I should be recycled, like a piece
of garbage tossed about the street
in a city that never sleeps. Yes, here is my calling.
My peace of mind. My constant replication
of self, brought to term and delivered.
Poor fish.
Poetry by Lisa Zaran
Read 994 times
Written on 2010-07-05 at 00:02
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