drawing words

i only listen to my feelings

when there’s no one to hear them:

at almost-midnight, with the ceiling fan roaring

and the spring mattress snoring

from next door.

here, on paper grown yellow at the edges

they shout in blistering red

shoot across the sheet

like cameramen trying to capture

a crying child.

they sing to me in the colour of oceans

the notes become whirlpools

of blues and blacks and whites

the bruises on this sallow skin.

eventually, my thoughts feedback:

“oh, but the week isn’t over,”

and quick as can see, the colours coalesce, for

“oh yes, this week isn’t over.”

Mother-in-law’s Tongue

This medusa-crowned plant is unfairly named

for there are many with tongues

just as twisted,

just as plausibly envious of youth

like the child licking a lollipop

stolen from an infant sibling.

There are tongues just as pointed,

just as spitefully sharp,

inside a politician under pressure

showboating on the stump.

 

What would they have called it

in a language of no preconceived notions

and no fear of woman?