Was that 4-4-4-4?

Folding clothes
feeding chickens
                        that resemble hawks
I feel safer
than a storm blowing through,
safer than knowing the future.

Acceptance chafes, leaves a red line like an angry scar
or a sunburn
the hot water stings as it steams
the sticky lip of the envelope open
an ambiguous secret omen

meant for me to see in the drops of water
pelting my head and back, sitting
on the floor of the bathrub shower
                                    showertub bath
                             bubbathrub…

(so many compound words, but I find it curious that they don’t all have
dashes smushed in-between like a linking log, Lincoln logged that maybe it
got caught and lost in the slog)

I walked out wrapped in a towel to our bed
not quite comfortable with the body you adore so much
and touch with
fingers reading braille, trying to memorize the way I feel
feeling my way through.

I am frightened that I don’t talk enough, that in the un-made time
of not yet
you won’t know me, your hands will turn blind and deaf and dumb
and my job as a switchboard operator at the hospital

won’t be able to connect us with ourselves
(each turning to other, and finally to each other)

so here is my solution. Dial 42
and I’ll type back
I love you.

Reviews

[SHEEMA HUQ]

cryptic and not an obvious love poem, which is what a like about this, and the metaphoric imagery is strong and provoking.....you have such an enthusing style...