oh baby with the sad eyes
what is your swan song?
now when i watch my reflection in the glass
i remember feathers and ripped wings, bone
shards in the dirt and blood specs on the white:
you never saw, Rambo broken,
the way they must have torn from the sockets,
snapped under a russet jaw. (i looked
for him long after dark, and could not
bring him home)
and i see you smoking a cigarette in a dream
that was not your doing, and trying to smash my head
into the bench but i couldn't get it right,
ran away and cursed you, hid in my old school,
behind a great tree trunk, and i can't do it right
even in sleep.
it was a cigarillo you had in hand,
you couldn't see, couldn't chase me down that beaten path,
couldn't pull me to the ground and tell me
i was really a good girl.
(good girls don't sing songs of wrath, good girls are not sullen,
nor defiant, good girls do not run from the hand that feeds them --)
and i could never see another way.
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YOU ARE READING
THE OCEAN
Poetry'In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little dark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of prey was quite different now, and...
