Carmen Giménez Smith
Don't I Disappear
come purple deep.
I sweeten the breach.
I'll hold you in my lap.
You'll be my gull, one bird
for the whole year.
Down one length, a pull.
Down another, the one art.
This path's an alphabet.
Each stone, a sound
from your gorge.
Your mouth is a fact,
also a settlement,
fugitive sensation I resist.
A crime, finally, the abyss
and your same vibrant mouth.
I was picked from the throngs
with nothing to show. They told me, no love
you aren't dark enough for cinema, but
it's impossible to forget
that someone on the stage has to hoist up
the angels. Someone paints blood
on wrists for the bathos.
In the next scene the star asks me
to pick at the braille
on his mouth,
as if he had any gravitas.
My line blows out of me
like a cartoon bubble. Illuminate me then burn me out!
There's no pose in what I do;
I am negligible, I am pale.
My score is composed with broken glass.
Wake up. The whole place is waking up.
Morning is a division of black from water debt.
Look into the eyes of your favorite face.
The irises are taut with sermons
about affliction and still, some nights don't ever fully end.
A dream about decline deepens the dark
with ugly reason. A sedative approaches
and you wait not to hear.
You're boiling water inside the desolate kitchen.
You're playing music for a never-broken tonight.
A word-riddled hum and green tea and
steam fills your mouth. You
stand in a bowl of fluorescence
because it begins through a film of fog.
Blue swims around you until you come to your senses,
but life is a peacock. You are not.
At the center of the kitchen light: each mark,
each line makes you grave.