No Talking

Try

There is no talking to me when I’m like this, when my jaw is set, when I know I’m right. Even when I’m wrong. I stand firm behind the wall of everything I know, everything you haven’t done your homework to find out. I tell myself I know exactly who you are, that I know how you’ll come for me, that I’ll be ready. All my words ammunition-belted across my chest. Ready. There is no talking to me when I’m like this, when my body aches from the tension I hold, when my shoulders are tight with the anger I swallow. Yours. Mine. I need to listen — just listen, not only to you — need to open at least one door. I need to listen, uncurl my fist, remember the feel of my open hands. There is no talking to me when I’m like this, when I’m so tired of the death and denial, when there has been too much silence for too long. Your silence. Mine. There is no talking to me, but you’ll have to break first. Cast your rusty voice, find the fissure, your words in your hand — sharp as pickaxes. Keep talking.


As I did last year, I’ll be following along with the Poem-A-Day challenge at Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides Blog. Today’s prompt is to write a historic poem. You can post your daily poems on Brewer’s page. The top poem from each day will be included in an anthology later this year!

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Are you writing poems this month? Where can I see them?
Let’s share this craziness!

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