You mock me for not taking part.
Your “It’s not fair, if I do it, you should too,”
sounds childish to my ears,
which can only hear I’m out of tune,
not whether I need to raise or lower my pitch,
or even if I’ve managed to alter my tone
let alone send it in the right direction.
I should’ve walked away.
Another night and you’ll say
I read my poems well
then get impatient
when I ask you to expand on that,
so easily forgetting I only hear a monotone
and if you don’t tell me how I sounded,
I remain excluded by what I can’t hear.
But I can see you fidget,
feet tapping a walking rhythm.
I hear Jarboe’s “The Man I Love”
just piano and voice
in a lament for perfect love,
as sparse as the best jazz;
a haunting of regret
Its ache for intimacy reverberates.
Emma Lee’s latest collection is “Ghosts in the Desert” (Indigo Dreams Publishing). She blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com and reviews for The Journal, London Grip and Sabotage Reviews.