09-26-2016, 10:47 PM
The words are there to envelop me,
a wall against the otherness
that leaves me owing explanation;
marking me for stares,
names, entitled questions, fear.
The smooth pages offer me my escape,
hiding behind the poppies of Mary Oliver,
the rantings of Bukowski,
the longing and ardor of Neruda.
Their passion my salvation, my shield.
One day I will rebuff the shifty stares,
the too personal queries, violations of space.
But, for today, I smile politely,
and wait patiently to retreat again
into the lines and rhythm of the words.
a wall against the otherness
that leaves me owing explanation;
marking me for stares,
names, entitled questions, fear.
The smooth pages offer me my escape,
hiding behind the poppies of Mary Oliver,
the rantings of Bukowski,
the longing and ardor of Neruda.
Their passion my salvation, my shield.
One day I will rebuff the shifty stares,
the too personal queries, violations of space.
But, for today, I smile politely,
and wait patiently to retreat again
into the lines and rhythm of the words.
