Selective
Xenophagy
We
speak in nods and grunts,
Myself,
now taking on the tradition.
Dinner
time comes in a rush,
the
rite of passage into hearts.
The
scrape of the fork,
the
pit of love left on lips, unkissed.
I
smile, the of pitter patter art
of
small talk, lost among us.
I
drag myself
from
one thought to another.
Perhaps-
we should of been born
telepathic.
At
least then, I wouldn't have to bankrupt
the
piggy bank.
We
could pitch tents
for
night stalking.
The
stars, Orion's show.
Let
magic happen.
Let
us count to three. One .two. three.
No?
I'm
left standing here, in blades of grass
taller
than trees.
Hiding
from myself.
Waiting
for the magic to begin.
Sarah
Hardin
Sarah
Hardin is a novelist and poet from the Southern United States. She has been
featured in
Pif,
Shampoo, Dog-Ear, Scribo, little bits, she is also the author of ‘Frayed Noose’
her second novel is in the works.
Tags:
Poetry