Samantha’s Daily Poem
Singing
Singing hurts
my feelings.
My voice
is like a limb
in spasm.
My hearing is fine
and my intentions
are graceful
but my throat is
off-leash.
Sing from your diaphragm
they say
but don’t they know
how hard it is
to let the beast
run free?
I feel for that guy
with Tourette’s
all he wants is a coffee
but instead
jagged words
spill out of him
like bullets
as he looks on
surprised as the
rest of us.
My favourite pen
I hold you so
familiar I think
best with you inside
my fingers quietly
waiting for the dance
to begin
you tap I twirl you
are the straw
that sucks the story
out of me
onto the page.
Weather forecast
My husband
can’t understand
why I check
the weather forecast
every night
when they
are so rarely
right.
But it’s not
whether it will snow
or rain
tomorrow.
I’m soothed
by the promise
that there will
be a tomorrow
at all.
You didn’t stand a chance
Rat,
you didn’t stand
a chance.
You had nothing
to do with
the plague
but the fleas
that caused it all
jumped off
your back.
Your image
never recovered.
You are
dirty. You dart
around eating
death. I’m only saying
what everyone says.
Nobody knows you
dream at night
and laugh
when tickled.
Humans cannot hear
the sound. I hope
it means you cannot
hear us
shriek.
A perfect thing
When I got home
from India
after six months
I ate
with a fork
and it was like
licking
a doorknob
after every
bite.
I read recently
that the only two
parts of our body
that have unique prints
are the fingers
and the
tongue.
Sometimes
in the effort
to sanitize
our modern world
we find out later
we have thrown away
a perfect
thing.
