A Poem


The day begins in a pose of defence
ducking and weaving,
searching for a bench.

It fills my bones with the itchiness
of a guarded arm
cupping the face in an angular embrace.

The bench can be found
with a hot butter knife
to slice through the bones
and unhinge the heaviness of angles.

And so I exchange
thought for thought,
energy for energy.

The words, sentences, pages,
are the hot butter knife
warm yet steely,
fluid but solid.

If I touch it,
my fingers will be scorched
but if I let it move,
it will melt away the day.

Please don't tell me a poem is a luxury,
because then I'll know
you've never been bone-weary,
waiting for the slicing
and the bench.

* * *

I felt like posting a poem today, but instead of transcribing someone else's poem, I spontaneously wrote one now. You probably deserve to read a better poem than this one though, so here's to a restful weekend of doing precisely that (and sleeping in).

Image source: The Bed (Le lit), 1893, by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.