“I have always valued my lifelessness.”
I am not the light that pours and pools through an open window.
I am not the drops of citron dotting a meadow,
the brief sunburst under a grubby chin.
I am softer,
easily beaten into shape,
and like a conversation with a stranger in the street
Copper thoughts and copper lights
an odd, tangerine, banked fire glow…
I hold the bright when I can get it
and only grudgingly release it,
and the tarnish that creeps across
stains more than the outer layers of me.
I may have peregrine visions and words of iron
but my heart is titian,
and my tongue too easily befuddled,
and I have tried,
I have hennaed my dreams,
brushing every square inch,
overlapping until even I can’t see where they begin…
It’s like a staircase
something invented for no other reason than to take you somewhere else
and I do want to claim the golden
the melting shine that signals a winner.
I want to polish it with my breath and hold it up to see the sun reflecting in my eyes
but the dull kettle booming fools no one
and the top shelf is not meant for the likes of me.
I have a serviceable heart,
one that works for the greater glory
of the light,
but resides in the out of sight,
the basement of steam and pipes.
And my hennaed dreams sweat and smear and run
while my words of iron drop without notice,
on the ground.