Spun Words

Spinster's poetry...enter at your own risk

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Location: Oakland, CA

Bringing the stories back to history....

Thursday, September 15, 2005


There you were
crying and blaming.

And I just wanted
to reach in my chest
and rip it out -
my heart -
beating and gory.

Then I wouldn't feel.

But even more,
I hoped that you would take it
and it would choke you.
The blood would stain
your pristine blouse
and slowly poison you.

Then you said,
"I overreacted."

And I swallowed it -
my heart -
choking on it,
the blood staining my hands.

And I said,
"It's alright."


Why do I dream about you?
-hear your voice
-feel your breath
-know your arms around me

Why does my dream calm me?
-steady my breath
-slow my heart
-release my muscles

Why is my dream fleeting?
-half remembered
-half created
-nothing true

Why don't I dream only when I sleep?


I tried to learn to play
on my mother's old guitar.

The strings would not hold a tune.

You were patient.

I strummed one or two notes
counter to your deft fingering
as we sang.

That's the truth.

But the picture
shows me playing
intent and equal
to your graceful bliss.

Did he catch us
in that moment
in perfect harmony?

Truth or not,
that is how I like it remember it.