Don’t Touch Me
“Don’t open the door to heaven
if I can’t come in.”
—Jeannie Seely
Don’t make my heart leap
and shudder at odd hours:
my own deep and curmudgeonly
love—wingbroke brain,
the oak’s green canopy spooling
and unspooling its branches.
love—wingbroke brain,
the oak’s green canopy spooling
and unspooling its branches.
The long o
in ago
sings to me now, low.
in ago
sings to me now, low.
So I’m slow to answer others, woe
to answer myself.
So don’t wait up. I don’t regret
a single lucky cigarette
a single lucky cigarette
I turned over and saved and smoked.
The table’s turned. And I’m—
not answering.
8 thoughts on "Don’t Touch Me"
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You had me at “wingbroke brain”! My mouth made music as I read this out loud. So good!
Wowsers, Shaun: “wingbroke brain”
Love how you use spooling and unspooling.
Echo the same phrase.
And adore the whole concept/feeling and how you caught it
The epigraph is perfect! That final quiet ‘not answering’ after the table’s turned all feel so honest and hard-won, Shaun.
twins. the strain of weed i just started is called ‘wingsuit’ a word that might suit your/future use 🙂
as always. lovely sense of atmosphere here shaun..
The long o
in ago
sings to me now, low.
So I’m slow to answer others, woe
to answer myself.
I like how in some of your poems you highlight the craft, here how the “o” vowel drags
This is full of fire. I love to see the description of your own love— “ the oak’s green canopy spooling
and unspooling its branches” just gorgeous!
Wonderful. Your lyric synapses are sparking like crazy here.