Crooked

This is another poem written for a concept for a novel.

Why is it posted in November? Because I don't yet have 7-or-10 posts for November (thanks, seizure), and my brain is markedly unhappy about these unequal pattern shenanigans.

Some thoughts on this poem. It's repetitive, echoing the tune of lullabies and nursery rhymes I remember listening to when I was little: wee Willy Winkie runs through the town, upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown. For me, "o" is a moonlike letter, white and full, like an eye. Names with "o" in them are watchful names. Because of this, the letter "o" gives words an illuminated sense: it lights up the other colors, underscores them with something bright. This is in direct contrast to those deep far-mouthed sounds "o" is used to represent, sounds that are deep blue, indigo, even black. There's a tension there, a push that creates a picture. "O"s are interesting letters. Thanks, synesthesia.

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The moon is yet low, lower than the skyline of the city. I have time to cradle my liquor and my creed, time to speak to the walls and to the nighttime itself, beating with pity with that quick heartbeat of the dark, time enough to just be weak.

The moon is yet low. Should the horizon rise and swallow up the moon, should it wish away the stars, I will still wait for you. I will wait for you. My fever comes in waves, it swallows up

my head and washes out my heart of hearts. The great giants grew with their roots buried in the garden. Their thirst for blood to sup and bones to break and eyes to pluck is legendary, and few

survive their hunger. The streetlights flicker on. I am crooked like the summer snow, and I have no reason now to love you. Winter burns my skull and taps against my eyes. I am crooked

and no one could love a crooked person. The moon will poison us with promises and tomorrows, things to come, things to dread, and oh God, please, forgive me, I never wanted to poison

you. But the monarch comes with moonrise and I can’t remember why the fever works in my blood and threatens to dismember you and I together, you and I, the prey of the giant

lost out somewhere in the nighttime. Who else could be compliant with our fate? I have time to cradle my liquor and my creed, time to work sorcery and to give you all that you could need.

#mypoetry #poem