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Performance Poets Association®
A Raging Curiosity
Peel him away! Harsh
murderous hand—the man—we’re
through with him, it is, the boy
Boy of blubbering and small
deformity (his muddled
head) of moist excessive
temperature, let’s hear it all—
your story’s groan;
old chant—right up to now, snatched
from the minute, let’s hear
the bells—a youngster’s
steeple song, your life- -O kiddo, it is
we’re waiting, and we’re
Many awards won, many publishing credits, two books and tape available
Each of us stands motionless.
Through the white shirt
of your delicate chest
I see your heartbeat.
Your pulse keeps time for you.
Because I am this quiet,
I do not change your plans,
You use staccato chirps and chants
and do not stop chattering
like some excited tree-top wren.
Your back to me now,
pairs of black and white stripes
fit the nape of your neck and
run down your length like wings
folded against your body.
When I return this way,
I hear your fervent ruckus, calling,
waiting for an answer. I see you
racing toward, then away from,
another scampering miniature fur.
So this is what your wild language
catches: a friend to frolic with
so you will not have to stand alone
while fall’s late sun no longer warms us
and autumn leaves go and die.
Two published, contest-winning chapbooks,
writes essays, memoirs and short stories
Something, perhaps the weight
of my covers themselves,
nudges the old quilt against my feet,
How it feels like Big
Buddha, my red cat,
curled against my leg,
Or the man
who used to share my bed,
rolling toward me for warmth,
Or the spirit-woman
draped in a long white dress,
who haunts this empty house,
Urging me to dangle my feet
from warmth to the hard wood floor
and begin what I’m here for
because no one has forever.