pressing
Poem by Ray Sweatman •
Photo by Jim Chiesa
 it's just one of those days where water doesn't matter. it's just another snake that hisses when you get it on your lips. soon the machine outside will suck us all in. and skin. the skin of the orange cantaloupe moon. the skin of the morning. the skin of unappreciated coffee. the skin of the ripest grapefruit sun sliding into the overhead bin. skin everywhere. and hair. long yellow hair. soon there will be an official inquiry. they will probe until they find the matching fingernails. the thing about Romantics is though they've seen the movie many times they always think it will end differently. faith is a trick of a faithless grandmother, doing her duty behind the parents' unsuspecting backs. we children never had a chance. it's a lock of hair in the bible. the bible could be any book where the page was open for pressing you and me against the word. look at these hands how they have a mind of their own. watch as they try to think as useless as a prayer without your flesh to sink into. |