I can’t write the things I want to say

January 1, 2012

even before your tea
tastes of incense

magenta flower petals
float on mud the grass
is too green

gripping his head and whispering
something whispering what telling
him to hold on this
is almost over telling him
whatever he sees
this isn’t real

the horses’ eyes are oval
and unseeing
but you’re watching
them and they’re
watching you

if their hands are forced
together if you think
hard enough

mud in the air mud
splashes and he falls
but doesn’t notice

fingers pointing they know
what they want and you
look away

ankle-deep in rain
and mud it’s pointless
to keep hunting for glass

and why is it your hand
he shakes brings
it to his forehead
as if he knows
you as if you’re important

blow in her ears to break
the trance but she screams
and screams

red makeup running
in the sweat and rain
that little boy
in the white mask

twisted fingers
huge eyes
her back
arches off the ground

he sits on a white
horse breathing while all around
him bodies pulse and limbs
pulse and jerk and the rain
falls harder

the animal’s jaw

eating flowers eating
rice eating glass eating
the smoke from incense

you can count
all his ribs could reach
out and wipe
at his makeup
and come away
with a thumb smeared
red and white

rain water on the back
of your neck mud water
on the front of your skirt

she has a tattoo on her
ankle and a silver star
in her nose

flower petals sprinkled
over their circle

lay the horses
on the ground and he’ll
fall on top of them

the girls wear white
shirts and red pants
and it starts to rain

what’s left
of a glass bottle clasped
in her hand wrapped
around her finger

bright green
and that purple
in the fading

they somersault
and go rigid

his teeth
against the clay pot

tea and water
and flowers poured
into their mouths

clacking of teeth and their jewelry
has to come off
remove the kris

do you fall
into the mouth

her body jerks and there’s someone
at her head someone at her feet
someone holding
her hands


she falls
out of the circle

his cross has slipped
up over his shoulder
forgotten and he doesn’t
stop dancing

little spots
of mud across her chest

half-eaten glass drops
to the ground red
and white flowers
still trapped inside

incense in her mouth
what happens
when it burns down

his feet fall
right in front of you

open mouths and flowers
falling out like bits
of things that you almost said

the gamelan stops
and all you hear
is rain


3 thoughts on “I can’t write the things I want to say

    • Zoe, I have gotten behind in reading your blogs but just did so. Your various talents never cease to amaze. Your description of the ballet was so understandable – better than most that you find in programs.
      You have more patience that I would have had with sewing . Enjoyed the Christmas and following day – you are a talented writer- able to convey atmosphere.

      I, too, miss hearing your violin.

      My Christmas was good – the choir was at my house for for practice and fun, family was here Christmas eve and Christmas day and next night I was at Betsy’s(daughter) & family.

      Happy New Year a month late. Thanks for the postcard.


    • I wouldn’t say always. Mainly, it’s a coping mechanism for when things get so crazy the only way to write about them is like this.

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