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Living with a Writer
It's hard to live with a writer.
You never know
when you're being set up,
if your most intimate moments
are destined to reappear in ink,
your words mouthed by
a stripper in a hot pink flamingo thong,
or a wino sprawled out on the sidewalk,
bottle clutched tightly to his chest.
You know you said those exact same things
when you were rocking the baby to sleep.
It's hard because a writer will ask
about your dreams, playing psychologist,
doodling, not even seeming to pay attention,
then only hearing what he chooses,
making the rest up, picking apart pieces of your life,
the mundane all heaped with the volatile,
the pot stirred until the blend
is grotesque and beautiful and impossible to resist.
When you finally read about yourself,
you won't even know it's you.
The End Game
At seven a.m.
you talk with death,
are stalking death,
an invisible man
tabulating time and terms
on your Spanish rosary.
You finally remember
how to count.
Silently, your cracked lips move,
in some prayer or curse
escaping logic.
You seem surprised
to find that you are
tied to the bed, but
it's perfectly legal
because your mind
has crawled up your backside.
At seven a.m.
the end game starts.
No apologies required.
In your dark apartment
the counter is covered
with empty bottles.
And in the tiny church
on your island village,
a single candle flickers.
Karen R. Porter lives in the Pinelands of New Jersey.
Email: Karen R. Porter
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