Myopia - Poem by peter bormuth
What does it matter, after all,
if another man is lying between
her thighs like a white swan
on the dark water?
Who really cares if a snowstorm
of shadows robs me of my fingerprints?
So what if I lay in a tomb all day
and then pop up in the evening
like an old barstool?
After all it's only my DNA
longing for new architecture,
wanting to change the arrangement
of the sitting room furniture.
Maybe I'll go up the fireplace in smoke
like a sullen saber tooth tiger.
Does it matter if the smell
of her underwear assaults me with
pickaxes? I can't call the police
and have her arrested. The wind
won't open it's windows. They've
been painted shut and the man
wearing the suit of green feathers
won't answer the doorbell.
The brooms all hate me and
the dishes rattle on the table
until the silverware is brought
from it's hiding place.
It's not a gentle thing to be human
and in love.
The undertaker and the baker
share space in the kitchen.
Why didn't someone warn me about this?
Invent a vaccine? It's such a small
twirl in the big swirl, I mean,
it really doesn't matter.
Have you ever seen the sandhill
cranes flap and hop and spin as they
dance along a riverbank?
Or the fireflies when they nuzzle
the damp dew on the tops of leaves
or the long blades of bent wet grass
in the ravenous morning?
Shit. Even my thoughts turn
into mosquitoes and sting me.
They strip the paint from the ceiling
and walls like a blind gorilla
with a rusty coat hanger.
They can't keep me here alone
in this prison forever.
Stars explode too.
If my cells want to rupture
their membranes, let them.
Just keep the fibroblasts*
away from me.
I'd rather die now
than do what most people call live.
*the cells in the body that form scar tissue after an injury or wound is sustained
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