Poetry Contest Submission 7

It was a business foot massage
That pulled me
                Kicking and screaming
Into her arms.
                I am a birth-bred
                                                Empty trough
And she let me siphon off some of her
                Acrid, stinging hatred.
“How are you, Ms. Johnson? Is there anything
                I can help with?”
It was my mantra.
                My motto.
I spoke the same words softly
                Every day.
                The sun rose without me,
                Forgetting that I was in
                                Some office.
                                                And thinking
                                                                And waiting
While I filed her papers and pressed my clammy
                Flaccid hands all over her
Life’s hollow passion.
                She never approved of my
                Heady attempts to please
She was twelve steps away from the wagon
                That she would never get within
                Ten feet of.
While I was kissing ass and
                Making paychecks,
That darling dear
                Held fingers toward the sun
                And sucked crystals out
                Of the gleaming sky and smoggy world
                And wondered where yesterday
                Had faded away to.
She came in from the cold once
                Raindrops skating down her cheeks
                Euphoric tears of a world spinning
                Dizzy and unhelpful
                Her hair clung to her face
                And her dark and empty eyes
                                Peeled like grapes and shining
She said she was embarrassed by me
                That my fingernails grew every time I lied
                And that pink clouds followed me around
                Like heavy scoops of sherbert.
I let her rant.
                Ms. Johnson might have been out
                To lunch
                But I was still rubbing her bony
                Feet and taking in the smells
                Of success and money and between-toes lint.
She thought of me as a maid
                A servant
                                A life-size doll with glass eyes
                I drank every word she said in double shooters
                                Letting my heavy cerebellum walk
                                Drowning with words and love
                And the need to be
                                Someone different.
She talked for a long time while the brilliancy dimmed
                From the western sky and the shafts of light
                Were flooding out instead of in
                And she was framed by the skyline of a city not yet born.
“And that’s why,” she concluded
                Her voice frantic and all clawed up from
                The inside.
“That’s why I hate you.”

About loyolapoets

The Greyhound Collective Poetry Revival would like to consider “mission statement” in its simplest terms. Rather than reiterate the boundaries of our task, we simply express our aim: to become a mission – a party of individuals sent out into the world with a message meant to unveil a uniting principle of truth. We define this message as “poetry.” We promote poetry as a viable and vivid art form, alive and accessible. Freed from its ivory tower, our poetry will breathe life into an ailing form while fostering an artful relationship with the greater community. We assert ourselves under the following mantra: “your mouth is a sign of how sacred your life actually is.” As a collective, we write to be sanctified. View all posts by loyolapoets

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