Blame

Nobody makes quilts

anymore

from scraps-

gathered, smothered

with pieces of

all the left

overs...

Some people don't eat

left

overs

or sugar, or walking creatures, or 

things that taste fishy-

Some say if

you dish it

you should take it

and some say 

No, thank you,

I'm full.

There seems to always be a way

To say, 

It is not right, it is not my-

fault-

lines lie

over there-

I was listening

Under a cover...

almost like, you know-

umbrellas 

were made to shield

the light

by design.

I don't like 

the shelter.

I get rained on-

Instead

I blame myself

for what cannot be 

unheard, retracted

undone

The word(s)

They

Use

They, them, the other

Way, they say 

Faults 

Sleep, for a time...

Painting by Henry Singleton, 'Ariel on a Bat's back' c. 1819 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Watch your Tome

I am holding it.

It has soft deckled edges
as I desired.

And it is small enough
with a hard protective shell
to fit in a woman's purse,
even if women are wearing
updated backpacks
to make them look
younger,
I suppose,
judging by the cover.

The cover is just an entry point,
if interested.

I hold its
girth and heft
knowing it is more than mine.

In crimson foil shapes,
I recognize the letters lining up
down the spine
as my own.

It moves me
to turn the page
while cradling this
creation and holding it
to life.

I can smell it
as though it were my own
perfume, never the same
sinking in
to different skin.

I am holding
these things
accountable,
tangible,
reliably
resulting
in heavy thoughts
with soft deckled edges.


Painting by Master of the Mansi Magdalen [Public domain].