Final poem draft, Week 14

Death’s Dinner Party

The Seattle fog condenses on our skin
as we walk from the Saturday house play; Antigone
would never face such a dense wall as we wallow through death’s
dinner party. We were his guests it seems as I clung to the arm
of your Armani suit. Our lungs breathe in what could
have been exhaust or the sky, depending on how you
look at it. Looking up from the balcony, I see a lone
mist barely formed across the cuticle of a moon, wipe
my glasses to hide the shiver from your cool touch. What
is there to fear as you turned to sip your bourbon?
When I was ten, the night sky was never so allusive nor fearful
as I squinted to find the lone figure staring down from the rooftop
across our building while the catacombs of the city loomed.
Turning then, I knew as if always knowing
that our deathbed tucked in so tightly could not bring back
what I had seen, the naivety of the unknowing would
hover over us as we dreamed of nothing.

Poem Draft, Week 13

Looking at my reflection, my vertical panel of teeth not yet grown glistened at my only friend. Nothing stood there. My knowledge of the canyon and its nightmares opening below me does not glimpse so easily from my gaze. I sit as if on a Windsor chair brightened by the faux sunlight, scrambling to speak but all that came were gutturals and half knowing smiles. I lingered at the ledge of my crib, spying the unknowable I would colonize one day as the pale window moonlighted as my heaven. I gazed through the mirror, unaware that its reflection was not of another. Welling from within, I did not fear the mirror facing itself. My face, within a face, within a face. I always knew what was hidden behind the closet half opened by its reflection before my lids closed, unhinged by the soft side of my pillow.

*Here's a rewrite of a previous draft. I still might need help with the framing.

Poem Draft, Week 12

What I must Have Thought When I Was Two

Looking at my face reflected the same guise,
a vertical panel of teeth not yet grown.
My knowledge of the grand Canyon
and its nightmares does not glimpse so easily
upon my face. I sit as if on a Windsor chair
brightened by the faux sunlight, scrambling
to say something but all that came were gutturals
and half knowing smiles. The ledge of my crib
was where I lingered, spying the unknown world
to colonize as the pale window moonlighted
as my heaven. I gazed through the mirror,
unaware that its reflection was not of another.
Welling from within I did not fear its nightly
gaze upon the closet. I always knew what was
hidden behind that door before my lids closed,
unhinged by the soft side of my pillow.