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If Anyone Asks, We’re Knitters
by Nadia Gilbert Kent
She removes her stash of dog biscuits
Kept hidden, the same sandwich bag
The same recounts of lost tracks
Of all of the boys
Insisting she’s let touch her
We pull loop after loop through baby blues
Into what we say will be a blanket someday
Stitches dropped, forgotten in
Played signature ringlets she sleeps her way into
Framing temples, long, straight locks pleated above
The crease of her bra strap
Pressed against the bricks
Sleeves masking bruised, unripe apples
As we’ve watched TV in our sleep,
Displaced in uneven rows, needle-bound
Mouths agape in lobotomal glare
Sharpened reflective retinal outbursts
Piercing incoherently through the song of
Predestined exile and
Confronting free will like a bad waiter
Metal bars pressed into
Cold pockets
Waiting for bells
We stitch lips tightened
Watching piles caked in mud-lust,
And the small kings that fight above them
05/24/2015 Posted on 05/25/2015
Copyright © 2022 Nadia Gilbert Kent
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Johanna May on 05/26/15 at 03:43 PM I love the quiet lull of this, plus the seething underneath |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 05/28/15 at 10:47 PM The righteous don't know what they're missing; not an excursion to a convention that supports the matching hypothesis.
Ringlets and temples...possibly a Gorgonzola-inspired nightmare of epic propositions [you may dissociate from that reversal] |
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