by Matthew Zangen
This feeling was made
like wax cake for a diner dessert carousel.
It is a spinning head on a lathe of plastic wrapping:
packaged, polished, perfectly premade, but
the air is temporary,
thick with embers of remembering-when's, dimming downward
into perfumed dust,
lifting again with sucked-in sighs
below half-closed eyes, for once meeting, and agreeing.
These words were meant to sooth;
a quieting hand on a cat's last breath.
Focused formalities instead glaze the eyes, where behind
a voice babbles excuses.
This gut churns and knots,
already starving itself.
These hands are trepid, but below the table,
clutching firmly a ring they always meant to keep.
Posted on 08/10/2007
Copyright © 2022 Matthew Zangen
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 08/11/07 at 03:06 AM|
Granted, it does feel a little disjointed, but I still think it's pretty good. I especially like the imagery/language of the second stanza.