Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Lori Gomez

I Think I Was Hatched

The first line is meant to intrigue you. 
The second line will establish the voice. 
The third line is grateful you've made it this
far, and will either be awkward and self-conscious, 
or cocky and boastful. The fourth line really doesn’t 
even acknowledge your existence, it just exists for
its own pleasure and runs on ahead. The fifth line
resents the first four, wondering why it's always
getting rooked and stuck in the middle of this.

The sixth line is the start of a new paragraph, or
maybe it's a stanza that stands alone. The seventh
line has given up on all of this, and rides the subway
home. Once home, it takes off its shoes, pops open
a bottle of something red and fortifying, then lets you
draw your own conclusions.


Under the eaves of a tall building
we pant and shudder, shaking off
pieces of sky as we dry, and the
dream fades faster. You're gone

I'm in the lobby of an office tower
I stumble into an elevator and press
the first button I can reach, there
are no numbers on them, and I know

It doesn't matter. Nothing does.
I walk out of the elevator naked
and self-conscious, the floor rolls
Itself open like a red carpet for me

A sterile grey air hits my lungs
I am now thirsty as well as naked
lost as a light beam on the surface
of the sun, I wonder where you've gone

A green silk robe appears loosely covering
me, the sash is unwrapped. In one hand are
my jewels, in the other a cellphone, I never think
of calling you. Not once. The walls become mirrors
I become another. She does a reverse Narcissus. 
A triple backflip with a twist that torques at the speed
of want and dives out of the gene pool and into a mirror

Without a splash.

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