Inanimate
Why do you roll me in your hand as if I were a simple pet?
The oil of the sun
clean on my shoulder, excites, chooses you
to throw me away with a whimsical kiss,
grind your thumb as you wish –
an imprint without standing gravity,
a force you exert blindly.
I am not a stone, a land you claim by holding;
fingers white on a knuckle bed,
a corset of love that smooth’s away my brow,
a portrait of a wave; the elements of always
coming back to you.
I am not a thing noted, existing as your conscience
decides –
a jewel you shaded, a rough of charcoal
when your fire dies.
I am not a tilting glass, arched upon your forever
lips,
or the fruit you bruise, exhausted for what taste
you will never really know -
the death of everything, I am not
and neither am I the birth.
What are demands
except the denial of what you are?
Do you see the human heart now?
Vine itself through the lock or arms,
muscled on a pulse of primal decisions,
a lava throb hidden.
Do not use me as an example,
there are things I have witnessed too –
bottles throat wrecked with ships,
castles, wind shed of form,
footsteps stolen from the shore
and shells made cruel with rocks.
I am not pockmarked
with things you could not use,
these grooves on my side,
are fossilised by dancing with myself.
Who are you?
What am I?
Why do you cling your questions to my lean?
Throw me away -
my back will crack with the glee
of exalting my own death.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Thu 13th Sep 2012 15:07
Thank you for reading and your comments.
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