Thursday, November 6, 2008

Untitled #8

She didn't seem surprised
In the least bit
By the secrets
Hers were what I expected
Of someone
With such a lavish shell

Nevertheless, we didn't mind sharing
When our folks were bundling themselves up
In dyed fur and eggshell cotton
Leather gloves and evenly folded words of encouragement
Scribbled on correspondence paper
And tucked in front breast pockets

Then it was suddenly a cocoon of uneven warmth
More natural ways to grow within our separate backyards
And the baron woods behind her house

She was exicted that he cared about the minutes all of a sudden
I refrained from the whole truth,
Thinking that
She had willfully lied in her mother's freshly painted avocado kitchen

When her sense of reality finally did bloom
What thick mud was already caked on our faces

She had borrowed the red cardigan,
After begging for a flashy shift

Soon the loose threads were hers
Meticulously pulled from the pattern
With press-on magenta nails
Giggly glued
On her first weekend as a butterfly

The news spread fast
But still believable

I clawed at her chest
Before dad told mom what happened next
The inherited summer house
And then rip-roarious applause
I would finally get a lot of reading done



My Idea of Fun said...

your details. fuck. your details! leather gloves, front breast pockets, correspondance paper, avacado walls... yeah dude. the way you write is refreshing.

My Idea of Fun said...

real good details and attention to colors. i felt like i was tripping over the words sometimes, though.

"She was exicted that he cared about the minutes all of a sudden"

"Before dad told mom what happened next"

just those two instances, really.

just some thoughts. still love your stuff, CW.

My Idea of Fun said...

you know, it's funny. i totally disagree with what the second person said. i love phrases like that. i love "she was excited that he cared about the minutes all of a sudden."
i love when writers accept their freedom and write in whatever way they believe adds to their piece. i don't know if c.w. feels this way or not...but i do think the what you view as perhaps jumbled fits perfectly within c.w.'s poems.