20 | April | 2016 | Golden Star Poetry

will you read out my story?
i aksed, as my hands noticed she would
rub her thumb against another girls hands in
comfort, and id bristle.

will you read out my story?
i asked, but she shrugged and said
maybe some other time,
but i could see she had no time,
what with the movie contracts and the
cars and cabs and the
smoking up neon-colored lights.

will you read out my story?
i asked, but she’d gone off to college
reading about gender politics and the history of
film and all she had ever read about my life
never existed.

tender,
clear eyes,
clear-eyed and wan,
and all the girls who spoke in poetry
scarsely changing hands;
i cannot enter an embrace with her soft voice
or nest with her garden of poems,
or remember the way her limbs fell like gossamer fans.
(will you?)