This is a poem I want to write.
But it’s just a disguise.
What I really want is a kiss.
What I really want is to collect my two hundred,
buy up the boardwalk,
and flip the fucking board off the table.
What I really want is a get out of jail free card.
This is a poem I want to write.
But it’s just a disguise.
What I really want is absolution for my most mortal sins.
What I really want is adulation for my brilliance.
What I really want is a pair of eyes to swallow me up
and shake me ‘round the ice ‘til I’m nice and pourable
for the cherry in the glass.
This is a poem I want to write, but the poem is fighting me.
It wants my blood.
It wants my flesh.
It wants the lava in my bones,
and threatens to cover my mouth with the moss of Emily Dickinson.
This poem wants me dead
and it’s time I surrender.
This is a poem I want to write.
But it’s just a disguise.
This is a poem I’ve written.
And this poem just saved my ass.
3 Comments, Comment or Ping
Amazing, Kay. I really LOVE your poetry. You should submit this poem to be published in a poetry journal. Really provocative and moving!
August 16th, 2013
Serendipity, I came upon your site while looking for a picture of Emily Dickinson and stayed for the poem. Several lines I feel you took the words right out of that collection of ideas yet to realize, and your poem just saved my backside too, thanks, I’ll keep checking back, wonderful blog.
March 11th, 2014
I really love this.
December 6th, 2014
Reply to “The Moss of Emily Dickinson”