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I Want You Back
Inconsistent shamble
Over unlike terrain, mismatched,
Mixed thatches of grass, dandelions, and shame
Skew the fields and avenues
Till one leads to another leads to another.
Baby steps and a particularly good natural sense of direction
Keeps me from confusing the brief
Sections of sidewalk under my feet
For something more than solid concrete.
This of course turns my shoes into lawnmowers,
Rubbing an impeccably misguided trail in my wake
Signing the hour for all nocturnal life
To read my fears with large Christmas light eyes.
On this night I cannot keep my step
To the beat of the song I sing in my head.
Shuffles break the chorus. Stumbling
Forces the “Oh baby”s into a mumbling
Pace much quicker than little Michael intended,
Turning this lyrical plea into something desperate and sordid.
When he whines “Give me one more chance.
Won’t you please let me back in your heart?”
I wonder what the other Jacksons thought when they supported this.
Would they sing backup if they didn’t believe
He genuinely deserved it?
Autumn wrings my face with wrinkles,
Bent between sweet rotting smells
And an unfaltering sense of foulness,
An inner scent of decaying muscle.
My heart to sponge, porous and gray,
Then to mush. Now
It seeps about, infecting
The unturned cavities of my chest and body,
Stewing the soul in a fleshy formaldehyde.
A small scourge in the self.
If I ever make it to your window, would I even have to talk?
Could you spot the sores surfacing up from my guts
On some piece of breast I didn’t realize I was baring?
Would my words be only for us?
Would your mother be there to hear and grip her gavel?
Would I be talking solely to a window, for the first time in my life?
So much to say, and for it to travel up to and through a window
Without communion, without even an ear present,
Perhaps turned, maybe deaf…
Even if your betrayed, wrathful, godlike stare
Were to grab inside and up heave ribs
And tear through my being like a child ripping
Apart a painting of her mother out of spite for timeout.
Even if you brought my heart, already fermenting
To the surface, spit on and torched it and fed the charred remains to your dog,
It would be better
Than to withstand a closed confessional window,
An empty booth, for the deepest council who has no love for me anymore.
