A Poem by Anon ymous, Occupy Chicago Poetry
esta es la verdad: ¿cómo la mano
encaja en la mía, que mi piel se quema
de su tacto, la forma en que se pierden
en el otro y es el hogar.
The last table is taken. You nod when asked if I can join you.
No glance. No words. You are engrossed in a book of poems.
I am thinking of summer, blonde fields, the sun a burning ember
in a deep blue sky. My eyes drift up when you turn the page.
I count one, two, three times when the page is turned back to
re-read. I imagine you are sad. Sad in a weary it is time to wait
again way. My mind drifts to snatches of poetry memorized in
school. There’s a couple at the next table, in their sixties,
dressed like they are coming from church.
In love yet, they share their space in comfort. She lightly
touches his hand when he says her name. Smiles at me and I
know they believe we are together. I want to wish it true. Your
sleeves are pushed up, lips a thin brushstroke of red. I ask you
the time; an inane question. I am not going anywhere.
Don’t need to be anywhere. Don’t want to be anywhere but
here. All my destinations are unplanned, bent. The road
unmapped, filled with potholes, every turn is crooked and
sharp. We listen to the impatient shuffle of feet from
customers lined up, barely aware of the low murmur of
conversation. The background music is Dylan. I know what
I want the answer to be: You tell me how to catch fire, how to
hold the spark in the palm of my hand. You tell me how to live
with ashes and dust. How you want to teach me to rub the stain
from a crucible, polish it, hold it to flame until my breath turns
to smoke. You tell me everything I am thinking is true. That
aqua blue is the color of sincerity. That shyness is a refuge,
desolation a virtue. The café is empty. Street lamps flicker,
the city struggles to stay awake. We are unnoticed. I study the
curve of your mouth, want you to feel the weight of loss;
consider the heft of grief, its every angle and bend. I want to
know how it feels to get lost in the motion of you moving
within me; that feeling of being home.
this is truth: how your hand
fits in mine, how my skin burns
from your touch, how we get lost
in each other and it is home.
(Editor’s note: The above poem came from a Chicago group. Below is theiir statement:
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
The poems presented here constitute an original work and are part of a new initiative: Message in a Bottle.
The idea is basic: anyone who would like to join can send a poem, poems or collection to email@example.com. Once it is recieved it will be submitted to blogs, ‘zines and journals. The same bio and mission statement is sent but depending on the poet the city/country will change.
Submissions are “blind” in the sense that a person who submits will never know where the poem is being sent or where it is posted or published. The hope is we can build a mailing list of subscribers for a monthy “Anonymous Poem” newsletter and also perhaps a Blog/Website of our own as well.
A resident of Chicago, Poet Anon says: You are encouraged to use this work in any way you see fit. Steal it, borrow it, take parts and make something new, rearrange it, riff on it, send it out over the internet, blog it, post it on telephone poles, throw it away. There is no copyright, no expectation of credit. Poetry should be free.)