"My brother and my sister don't speak to me / but I don't blame them"
- James Blake, "I Never Learnt To Share" (2011)
Alternatives (Schrödinger, 1952)
are another way of saying loss:
how Little Sis cried when Mom
reconsidered her own abortion;
Big Sis forgets to miscarry Mom;
a stranger owns my blog domain.
The wrong timeline a synonym to
this poem, a symptom of anomaly.
Day 1: Throw all these words out of a window.
Day 4: The Sky remains blue, and not to be hugged.
Day 9: Pouring heart out, into sink. Peeling redness.
Day 17: Began counting despite lack of fingers.
Day 25: Began counting all hugs that were missed.
Day 31: Thinking of us Lesbians; and everyone erased.
Day 59: We failed in realizing how nothing comes to pass.
Day 100: Zeroes gaping, curved and sharp, fitting.
Day 219: What if there was no alternative? No vaccine for touch?
Day 370: Began projecting futures off the tips of raised hairs.
Day 541: I’ve tasted wet lips once, long before my lips had hangnails.
Day 712: Numbers, Skies, Zeroes, Hair on my lips and touchy, touching.
Day 713: Nights becomes taut and I didn’t even get to touch them.
Day *11: There is no longer a pandemic that failed to touch everyone.
Day 2*6*: I lost you in writing: you too, were out of the window, out of touch.
Microsoft Windows [Version 10.0.17134.829]
(c) 2018 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
C:\Users\Lune>darken puddle
‘darken puddle’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>add tears
‘add tears’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>dose check
‘dose check’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>hot tea
‘hot tea’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>stroll room
‘stroll room’ is not recognized as an internal or external command,
operable program or batch file.
C:\Users\Lune>d:
D:\>cd Google Drive\Poetry
D:\Google Drive\Poetry>type Suiteroom_3.txt
One night, I swallowed a planet.
Two moons later, a wrong word
shifted a wormhole via bad praxis.
Using language as a fork for soup:
these tears I stippled on my cheeks
where they should be rolling down.
Another night of failed application.
When you deconstruct my apologies
in a black hole, all sentiment is lost
like the wormhole above. Speaking,
when I cannot hear myself in space.
It’s not like you heard, or replied.
As I dragged a sunbeam you stopped
smiling at me. Made my own morning
like a nostalgic breakfast. Found the sun
in these eggs, scrambled and dispersed.
This stanza is diagnosed with Jaundice
and not the above conditions. I escaped
from dreams, coming to terms with yellow
eyes; Things uglier than the summer heat
frothing inside me. Brushed away yellowed
teeth instead of your rays that pierced me.
I watched you, having the autonomy of a star.
Words she took out of my mouth,
she wrote a poem; Found the moon.
I take back what I said about her:
You Gorgon, with a bite you created
the Crescent. If that is not beauty,
there is still the phrase about phases:
On your face, figurative expressions-
All frightening the cores of stars,
showering praise as I cried the night.
A lump in my throat turned to stone.
Which was hard. Difficult to love.
Love too difficult, gravity too easy.
There is no place for love
where it falls, autumn leaves
without winter to catch it.
I moved to a place, reminded
of you. Something that falls
is not necessarily caught.
To be in space, nowhere still
a place. Action and consequence
falling into place, where I cannot.
I found a poem so clichéd it was painful.
Proceeded to use a bandage. Left it where
I dropped it. Clichéd is now a pun for hurt.
It is eye-catching like how Fool’s Gold is an
idiom. By association it is a mousetrap topped
with a slice of cheese. The cheese has holes in it.
I am not actually a mouse. I like metaphors to the
extent of breaking my fingers for them. Wrapped them
in this piece, applied pressure to stop the bleeding.
Found clichés abound under the sun even though
it is nighttime now. No outer space references here.
Just filler in inner spaces without the negativity.
Every word in here is exhausted. I am writing
in notepad since I cannot write on walls. Wall
is tired and does not want to be written on. Notepad
is tired and resists, being, written, on. There is repetition
since writing is tiring. There is, and will be elaborations
since writing is tiring. Wall and Notepad are not friends
because they are tired. Wall and Notepad are not friends
because they are empty. Wall and Notepad are not friends
because of repetition. Wall and Notepad are not friends
by association, by correlation, by elaboration, by repetition.
They are ions in this poem. They form its literal structure.
They show that I am tired, while Notepad has finally succumbed.
Not every word in here is exhausted, and a wall writes itself.
Lune L. 