the other few
Rather than saying "a few," I should have said "a couple." And by that I mean, "this-is-the-only-other-poem-I-wrote-this-summer." Meh. I think my brain was overstretched long before I started writing it; however, I like this one a little better than the last one (although the final stanza really needs some work (it just doesn't quite click the way it should (and if you have any thoughts about where it should go, let me know. I'm rather stuck at the moment))).
marionetted me
At the puppet show, children squeal in bright
greens and flustered yellows. But all I hear is blue.
You feel red, your heart drumming blood into
fingers locked in play with mine. Dangling high,
the dolls dance, their limbs flailing like March kites.
But the puppeteer's knobbled fingers slip -
falling in a jarring tangle, dolls twist,
strangled together - their bodies noosed tight.
"It's a shame they're so attached," you say,
squeezing my hands until they throb blue.
The dolls begin their dance again - I look away,
wondering about Pinocchio's lie
and if it would be easier to dance
tumbling between the whale's acid white ribs.
marionetted me
At the puppet show, children squeal in bright
greens and flustered yellows. But all I hear is blue.
You feel red, your heart drumming blood into
fingers locked in play with mine. Dangling high,
the dolls dance, their limbs flailing like March kites.
But the puppeteer's knobbled fingers slip -
falling in a jarring tangle, dolls twist,
strangled together - their bodies noosed tight.
"It's a shame they're so attached," you say,
squeezing my hands until they throb blue.
The dolls begin their dance again - I look away,
wondering about Pinocchio's lie
and if it would be easier to dance
tumbling between the whale's acid white ribs.
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