Girls voices on the answering machine.
Women whom I do not know
speak to you.
Like a monk vowing silence,
you become grossly abstinent
with your words.
You know I have no unease
with the voices.
The way your life is yours,
not mine. And it drives you crazy-
cause you defy communication
but I should be an exposé
like that old adage:
what's yours is mine, what's mine is mine.
So you stayed with a friend in Dallas, you say-
and you get no rise out of me.
No "Who?!" resounds your way.
I don't want to play the game
if that is what you are trying to ask.
And hey baby-
if you just want to make the stories generic,
you know I will respect your autonomy.
But my unclenched hands
drive you over a valley so deep-
into the distrust you have of me,
out over the sweeping wings that want to wrap me up
not let me free.
You want to see every word
that floats through my head.
But I don't understand the force
the manipulation.
Here are the words.
I gave them already.
Weren't you listening?
NorthSouth Press 