...quiet, about a lot of things...

So today's assignment(for my poetry class) is an intrusive narrative. Premise being, we argue with ourselves constantly. And we are the narrators, true, of our own sagas...so why not write a poem that acknowledges our voyeuristic, Omnipotent self. Why not expose the man, I mean, the girl behind the curtain.

small hands

of all the preening done
-the smoke and mirrors
or bait and switch,

it is this, the taking of
my hands, that undoes me.

my hands, the minions
of my life, the holders
of my soul and love and
life -lined up all
scribble scrambled-
caked with grime of skin
shed,tears wiped, blood

spilt,then scubbed into
submission,bleached to
calloused surrender.

my hands betray
the fraud of my
lady like ankles,of
my tailored skirt and
kitten heels.

"such tiny nails,"
she marvels. "such
small Hands"

at this, i almost utter
"not even the Rain"
like a secret
between sisters.

as i part my
lips to offer it,
she clucks and turns
my hand with hers.
"too dry, too old"
between her teeth,
not white as my own.
still,even she is not
so easily fooled.

i have no poetry
to offer.