Abandoned by a raging drunk, I spent the first hour of this year in silence.
In my little dark magenta dress and stockings, I took my shoes off.
My heels soon bare, not sure what part of my foot is bleeding, not sure if the cut is getting deeper, I walk.
“God bless, gorgeous,” a deep voice preached in passing.
Some men see a woman’s eyes and feel a poem.
Instead of talking, I lean back in my chair
Fold my arms tight against my breasts, curl my lips up nasty, and give you a look so dirty it has sobered you.
My eyes are poetry. Don’t forget that.
With one look, I can alter your entire existence.
I’ve done it before and I just did it again. Keep this in mind.
My hands. You’ve seen them move like music when you are music.
Never searching for the right note. They move gently and harmonies unbound like morning birds performing their freedom songs with the light.
My arms, they expose the way of my heart.
They celebrate, they open to a gold pop and sparkle, they cheer.
But they also cross and fold. This is the sound of a heart beating in drop time. The deepest blues of my heart. The stillness of my human.
My eyes are poetry. You remember now.
Now that the sun has risen.
Some people see a new day and feel prelusion.
So I am leaning back in my chair, my lips are curled up nasty, and that look, so dirty, has your head hanging in dirge rhyme, walking away in damaged time.
Your eyes are poetry, those thirty old city blocks told me, and let this day remain one of silence.