Home-Flesh

This is a poem.

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My father’s bedroom,  ------------------------

his closet,  ------------------------

bottom drawer,  ------------------------

his file filled with manila folders,  ------------------------

that I feel are all  ------------------------

the varieties of human flesh. ------------------------

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This folder feels like skin saturated in salt-water, ------------------------

thrown open by a breeze, inside I see  ------------------------

tiny footprints marked in sand      ------------------------

that pour into the room in old dreams. ------------------------

And before I am suffocated by them  ------------------------

I close it, put them away, and I save them. ------------------------

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This one is flesh without bones, ------------------------

it shutters while exhaling short breaths, ------------------------

it echoes within the shell of a skulled mind, ------------------------

it slides from my hands and I try to chase it down. ------------------------

But it changes form so rapidly, ------------------------

that I forget what I am after. ------------------------

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This skin is blue like ice, ------------------------

empty, its insides have been expelled, ------------------------

and I get the feeling they didn’t want to leave, ------------------------

but the space between became too frozen. ------------------------

And so cold, I cannot hold it anymore ------------------------

and now I know that skin can shatter like glass.------------------------

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This folder is strong, a patchwork of textures ------------------------

decades bound together by deep muscle tissue,  ------------------------

four compartments, each ventricle of the heart.  ------------------------

this folder is old, a blood-red-line. ------------------------

It pulses in my hands, becomes a part of me ------------------------

synchronizing with my pulse. ------------------------

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The last folder feels like tough human skin, ------------------------

the every day kind, worn but healthy with scars, ------------------------

inside, nothing at all but a lucid penetrating eyeball, ------------------------

no lid, no lashes, a pupil dilating into empty space, ------------------------

And with trembling fingers I feel my flesh ------------------------

and the struggle of my family. ------------------------

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-------------------------------------------------------------------------TO:POPS

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Reviews

[Abhishekizy]

Now don't take it as a return of favor but it excites me to look into those who gets concerned about my write. It just a feeling to know wad goes into a mind when they read my write. When its over, what excites more is to look deeper into that mind and pull out its writes to reveal its souvenirs and its scars. When I read your poem the first thing which stuck me was the fact that you are rather an elaborate writer than a poet. Your skills at emotions comes natural and are well bound by metaphors and makes me feel you are very comfortable in creating a language of your own. If a look up to you, it would be an eyes of a fiction reader. You have a very thick texture which sounds unfinished in poems.... A small fiction will do it enough good. Well regarding the write, it is one of those writes which can hundred of meaning depending on how a reader interprets it. Such writes are difficult to write and here I can see you quite excel at it. Your writes are so suggestive. Its pleasure to read you in your write!!!

Honor me with a read request if you ever write a small fiction or a novel. I would be a big fan trust me. Thats wad I see in you

[Abhishekizy]

And wad amazes me is that you call it a " first draft". Brilliant!!!! Its just a pure love for writes I can see here