September 18, 2011

My Last Willing Testament

Now I have begun unraveling
the yard I spun on moonish nights,
all woven through with threads of summer gold,
worn softly, and worn soft
with all the touching.

Now I have begun giving away,
piecemeal, my collections,
tokens, and bits, and sacred scraps of
value beyond rubies.

(Or, they were, before
I took them to the bank.)

Now I have knelt, thick of bone,
awkward of muscle, there
by the river where I gathered
lilies once, and later, watered
armored horses.

Now I wash
my banners and my ball gowns
in a machine, mixed
with socks and dish towels,
and occupy myself with
lining bins, and clearing space.

The Roast's Soliloquy (a eulogy to my twenties)

The timer dings,
the door clangs open. Clattering,
I am dragged out, spitting
and hissing and suddenly cold.

No! - put me back! -
I am not finished, put me back
until I'm hard and golden on the outside,
until I'm rich
and mellow on the inside,
until my juices run clear,
gleaming and unctuous around a prick.

I have not been there
long enough, I tell you -
yes, I've been seasoned,
stuffed and brined,
and complemented well
by what you've got there
on the side, and by that wine
you bought, but all of that will be wasted -
it's too soon!

Put me back! You'll regret it, you will
think me good and fine and finished,
till you cut too deep and hit too red,
and make a face - "Uck!" - and spit me out.
Well, it won't be my fault,

I told you I wasn't ready.