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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.