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The Reason I was Mad at You, But Didn't Admit It, So I Babbled Like an Idiot Instead
Rena Sherwood
While you
were listening to the speaker and pondering
whether the validity of a poet’s responsibility
is to write for the readers
and/or the readers themselves,
I
was staring at your hair
While you
were debating with a frown how to cut
organic abstractions and allegorical impressions from
just intentionally obscure writing,
I
was remembering that you said that your hair
was getting far too long
and that it should be cut soon
but its glistening dark spectrum
made me nauseous at the thought of losing it from my sight
and I thought, “How could you do this to me?!
First, you grow it until it’s a kite-shaped black diamond
with tantalizing torments of unrecprication and now
you’re going to take it away from me?”
While you
were accessing the value of criticism
(giving, of course, that all criticism is subjective)
and leaned back in your chair towards me to do so,
I
was plotting how to find your hairdresser and,
disguising myself sufficiently,
steal the dewinged wisps that fell
from the scissors’ onslaught
(which got me to thinking, of course, just what the hell could I do after I’d gotten the hair
after going through all that and, after all,
I’d probably lose it as soon as I got it,
knowing me.)
While you
were deciding not to applaud
the speaker’s concluding remark
about poems an audience does not at first understand,
I
crossed my arms and legs to keep me from yelling at you
instead memorizing the interwoven tapestry
of ebony cigarette ash and sandalwood
knowing I just couldn’t ask for some of your hair
because that would be too obvious now,
wouldn’t it?
Rena Sherwood has lived in both England and America. She has poems appearing in upcoming issues of T-zero, The Custer-Hawk Gazette, Scifaikuest and GlassFire. She has sold short stories to Atomjack and new Witch. She hopes to be a white horse when she grows up.