DeAnna Esquilin

Rookie (5/7/70 / Bridgeport, CT.)

That Day On The Phone - Poem by DeAnna Esquilin

We are a “Thing.”
“We just hang there”
you say…

Like a 'thing' weren’t

A Planet
Or a Star
Or a Galaxy


Complex. Celestial certainty.

And suddenly I am standing in the dessert blistering & thirsty.

We are “Sex.”
“Nothing more”
you say (acidly) …

How casually cruel of you my Prince?

(Yep, a 15 yr sex addict for just you)
(Me love you long time gone wild)
(We two, decade long adolescent, horn-dogs screwing like middle aged rabbits)

I remember each time as awkward
My tongue like stone in my mouth
My arms & breasts felt like genetic mistakes
Our bodies trying to do what we cannot say?

I recall visits where I wore my desire for you like a red hat at funeral
Wrong and Bold
And you
Donned always in sadness
Always in longing for me
Still come.

Still, you come?

It is cruel to love a man deeper than his reasoning
It is the not believing that breeds malignant
Years pass like death and I still taste your name in my mouth
And your daydreams call to me naked and raw
Loving you is like being welded to death.
Always Sorrow.
Always Absent.
Always Absolute.

Why then do I miss your hands like phantom limbs of my own?
Your nail beds.
Smooth, wide and white as stones.

Why do I require the sound of your voice?
Your lips like glossed candy?
Your stubble on my thigh?

Why do your thoughts carry me to you?
Or you to me?

Why is loving you feel like I'm a conscious cadaver?

Convoluted and Broken -

A “Thing” can have a course that is a not a choice.
Logic can lay carnage to the beauty and frailties of 'Things.'

And as I lay dying,
The only thing I hear is your voice.
(always your voice)

And I wonder…
Does he not understand the terminus of death?


Comments about That Day On The Phone by DeAnna Esquilin

  • (1/13/2010 7:08:00 AM)

    again a sweet peace..with innovative idea..10/10 (Report) Reply

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  • (1/8/2010 6:51:00 PM)

    Really good diction. It really paints the picture. And I understand how sad this poem is. I'm left with echoes from this, how you say you miss the sound of your lover's voice, I am left with the lines echoing, and the voice of my own lost love echoing. I believe in one thing, which I feel applies to your poem, and that is that sex is not the ultimate expression of love. For it is nothing but an empty promise if there is no real love. (Report) Reply

  • (12/21/2009 2:46:00 PM)

    I was wondering a little about you, and this one satisfies my curiosity. Your language is awful (in the ancient sense of the word) and even a little frightening.- not what you say, but the way you say itl (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, December 17, 2009

Poem Edited: Saturday, November 13, 2010

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