Body Language
Something’s not quite right.
Their body seems all… tight.
Their shoulder did a dip
when those words passed their lips,
hands crossed over the crotch
as they told me all they’d lost.
They slumped their shoulders and neck,
leaned forward and said, “Heck,
I’m alright.” But it’s all lies,
I have surmised.
Because with a gentle prodding
they tell me about that sodding
so-and-so in their life
who brings them so much strife.
My job is to build them up
to make them feel enough
so when next they visit me
they can hold their body freely.
Their shoulders will sit strong
and they can deal with whatever’s wrong.
Reacting Inappropriately
I am the kettle you’ve swum in,
the vision you fell in and twisted your ankle.
I am the wasteland of delights,
desperately dragging you home where I hate you.
You are the moth-eaten rug
that I thought was Persian.
You are the pit-fighting dog
wearing the coat of a poodle.
You are the brick walls of the daisy meadow,
and I am the melting wax of a candle burned.
Going Underground
The cave floor is slippery with bat droppings
walls narrow and close slowly
until I am wedged into the crevasse
…………….Breathebreathebreathe,
…………….rallentare.
…………….Slow.
…………….Down.
until someone pulls me through
a limestone birth canal, reborn.
Reborn via concrete and steel
to a world where no one wants you
with nowhere to go
where you let Spice steal your extremities
as it steals the stars from the sky
and the ground from beneath you.
The ground beneath everyone
where no one looks to see those who lie
sleeping, surviving on handouts from the bottom
of a cave floor, trapped in a crevasse
trying to breathe,
waiting for someone to pull them through,
but most are trying not to slip in the guano.
"LEGGI RELATIVI" POEMS BY OLIVIA HAJIOFF: Brave, Clouds and more»
immagine: Pixabay
