Being Forced
Being forced to write about love
is like being stuck in a basement,
while paralyzed, with a magnifying lens in hand-
as my first fresh, glass of whiskey spills and slips though a crack in the carpet.
It’s like only wanting to listen
to the eerie silence of a light, blue shadow
but being forced to uncover my ears
to a railroad spike cutting through sheet rock.
It is as if someone is holding my stretchy headband over my eyes
and isn’t letting me see the tiger.
When all I have ever really wanted-was to see a tiger.
Being forced to write about love
is like my sweaty, dirty palms grabbing the sharp edge of an ax
while tears and snot run down my snout
and then someone reminding me that:
all David ever gave me was a sweet potato for my birthday.
