I never recline in splendor,
I never take repose. The eyes
of an old woman are blue
and stick to me like insects to
a screen. She is not hating me,
though there are those who hate me,
so I never lie in repose for fear
that if I agree with the vulnerability
of sleep, I'll make my own murder.

I don't embrace the unconscious
or analyze my dreams. The eyes
of people who hate me might be
spiders crawling on my hands,
or snails that leave their shells,
but I will not allow their acidic
tounges to touch me. I belive
in ghosts only now that her blue
eyes stick to me like humidity.

I will not outgrow my spite,
though I read books that instruct
me to. No, I'll always lie with my
sleep beside me like a knife.
I forgot my spite, once, only
to wish I had not: He lay me
upon the bed, crossed my arms
across my chest, then fell to me,
pressing a book between us.

I never lie in repose. I am not
a portrait. But I think so still
my joints ache. One day, he
shall not be the same (as I have
never been the same), and we
shall read upon his stone a verse
attributed to my name. This
is my foresight and my fright,
blooming red in his eye's white.

by Cate Marvin

Comments (5)

Yep! Friendship at its best is akin to love. Longfellow might have said it best but you say it pretty good too! Donall
That's my kind of an afternoon! A lovely penning SSS. t x
A thoroughly satisfying poem about old friendship and memories. love, Allie xxxx
Sounds a divine afternoon Scarlett. Lovely to have friends you can relax with and enjoy a laugh and a tear. Well written. Love and hugs Ernestine XXX
Scarlett this was a great poem. it touched me. a great story and poem rolled into one. i give it a ten