Post by Bobby Slais on Dec 16, 2007 8:57:13 GMT -5
From nine months before I was me
until then, it was my possession.
He fancied himself
a magic man, flimflam wand,
smile smooth like glazed ceramic.
A performer practiced in the art,
manipulation of props and sleight of hand.
Small talk over a beer
became little words on a map with dots,
places we were supposed to travel.
Him, like a little kid,
"are we there yet, are we there yet"
as he memorized my landscape with his eyes.
Me, like his mother,
rolling mine. This was no vacation.
As I drank, my body poured
out of me slowly, like syrup,
a naked glistening jelly,
sweet on his tongue.
I shook, terrified to feel thrilled.
I didn't know its name,
but I could see
that his magic wanted me.
I was charmed, mesmerized
as if I was placed
into one of those trick boxes,
head and arms and legs
through holes, so an audience could see
I was still alive, my body trapped inside.
I was not prepared
when he Hail Mary plunged
his sword through the hole.
My Mother Mary plea
was mistaken as an act,
all part of the show.
It tore deeper,
I felt impaled as if dying.
How could I let this happen?
Senses escaped,
my possession lifted.
An odor, like a waterless ocean trench
surrounded me. Layers of hair tugged,
made heavy by blood,
my lava flowing out.
I couldn't see fire, but it burned.
Tears, filled with my regret poured out,
he gradually became invisible to me.
I no longer wanted to be myself.
I wanted to be my little cousin,
my kid sister, or better yet, a goldfish.
For the next few days,
circles swam around me.
People whispered and stared.
They must see that I have been changed:
that this vapor is like fog
blurring my conscience.
Is this the residue of my innocence?
Bobby 2007
until then, it was my possession.
He fancied himself
a magic man, flimflam wand,
smile smooth like glazed ceramic.
A performer practiced in the art,
manipulation of props and sleight of hand.
Small talk over a beer
became little words on a map with dots,
places we were supposed to travel.
Him, like a little kid,
"are we there yet, are we there yet"
as he memorized my landscape with his eyes.
Me, like his mother,
rolling mine. This was no vacation.
As I drank, my body poured
out of me slowly, like syrup,
a naked glistening jelly,
sweet on his tongue.
I shook, terrified to feel thrilled.
I didn't know its name,
but I could see
that his magic wanted me.
I was charmed, mesmerized
as if I was placed
into one of those trick boxes,
head and arms and legs
through holes, so an audience could see
I was still alive, my body trapped inside.
I was not prepared
when he Hail Mary plunged
his sword through the hole.
My Mother Mary plea
was mistaken as an act,
all part of the show.
It tore deeper,
I felt impaled as if dying.
How could I let this happen?
Senses escaped,
my possession lifted.
An odor, like a waterless ocean trench
surrounded me. Layers of hair tugged,
made heavy by blood,
my lava flowing out.
I couldn't see fire, but it burned.
Tears, filled with my regret poured out,
he gradually became invisible to me.
I no longer wanted to be myself.
I wanted to be my little cousin,
my kid sister, or better yet, a goldfish.
For the next few days,
circles swam around me.
People whispered and stared.
They must see that I have been changed:
that this vapor is like fog
blurring my conscience.
Is this the residue of my innocence?
Bobby 2007