an un-poem

an un-poem                                    January 24, 2016
i could make a book
just from the letters i started to write
and never signed
an unfinished book
of unfinished love
from an unmade poet
with unnamed children

i could make a funeral pyre
from the letters i started to write
and never sent
a fire of grief
making ghosts and ash
from the dust of unburned passion
for an unloving beloved

i could wrap ten thousand fish
in the letters i started to write
and never enveloped
they would make good jackets
for absorbing the fish monger’s slime
maybe old ink would make them all taste fresh
in the un-flesh
of girls becoming un-women

i could mulch all of eden
in the letters i started to write
with only a first name for address
layers of paper holding water in
artificial un-evaporation
because desert paradise is always a garden
where the leaves are unfallen
and the unrepentant
are unforgiven

About m

My ego wants to think I'm a writer but my heart knows I'm just another one of God's Kids who sometimes has words to say. 2 human kids and 3 feline kids call me Mom. Or Mooooooom. Or mewom, depending which you ask. I'm kinda-sorta busy being a student again; this time I signed myself up for a bizarre torture known as Graduate School. Theoretically in 4ish years I'll have earned some more nice letters to put with my name. Let's face it, I'm addicted to learning and probably need rehab to restore me to sanity and remove the obsession to read books. I don't remember what free time is but I think I like to spend it sleeping or playing in the mud on a river bank.
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1 Response to an un-poem

  1. Pingback: an un-poem, take 2 | the liminal life of m

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