Saturday, December 19, 2015
Sing to Me
A while back I was digging around for something in the basement, and found a cache of notes from college. Even then, it seems, my handwriting was terrible.
In one notebook was a poem. I must have written it when I was 21 or so-- that age where "adult" is really more of a formal title than a reality, like the kid Mormons on bikes with black and white name tags identifying them as "Elder."
The poem was not based on anything that had happened to me at that point. I think it was more an idea of what I thought life might be like in the years then to come:
"What do you want?
What do you want?"
She does not expect an answer
And speaks with such urgency.
But I do know.
I look at her.
"Sing to me
In the dark
In French.
Put the palm
Of your hand
On my chest
Right there.
Take the skin
Of an orange
Rip it open
With your nail
Breathe deep."
