The Girls Who Trade Their Love For Art
wear tiny lockets, filled with tiny secrets,
like spiderwebs being pulled from their throats.
The good ones buried under cigarettes
and black coffee, dug up from their graves
in rented Victorian houses, the places where
sunlight refuses to sleep, cradled by darkness,
the musicality of their voices -- ruin.
Sarah sleeps quietly next to me,
and she doesn't know about this poem,
where I attempt some small miracles,
like staying in love throughout it,
the same way that Christ might
resurrect a wilted flower before
he brings Lazarus back to life, except
that I'm not Him and wonder if I'll ever be.
The girls who trade their love for art
are only the smallest part of my unhappiness;
monarch butterflies travel two thousand miles,
migrating from Canada to the depths of Mexico
for love, but you won't travel down the street
for an equal feeling, if not an equal name, but I suppose
that not everyone can enjoy the sunshine and
not everyone can fall in love at the right time.
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why is her name sarah? ...just wondering.
ReplyDeleteanddd my favorite part:
"and she doesn't know about this poem,
where I attempt some small miracles,
like staying in love throughout it"
Yeah I don't know why her name is Sarah. I suppose it could be any girl's name, but I got tired of using the name Lily for a generic girl name.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite is actually the first two lines. I can picture the spider webs.
ReplyDelete