07-28-2013, 10:54 AM
Meditations on a File
by Yusef Komunyakaa
I weigh you, a minute in each hand,
With the sun & a woman's perfume
In my senses, a need to smooth
Everything down. You belong
To a dead man, made to fit
A keyhole of metal to search
For light, to rasp burrs off
In slivers thin as hair, true
Only to slanted grooves cut
Across your tempered spine.
I'd laugh when my father said
Rat-tail. Now, slim as hope
& solid as remorse
In your red mausoleum,
Whenever I touch you
I crave something hard.
(I smell sawdust and my grandpa when I read this.)
by Yusef Komunyakaa
I weigh you, a minute in each hand,
With the sun & a woman's perfume
In my senses, a need to smooth
Everything down. You belong
To a dead man, made to fit
A keyhole of metal to search
For light, to rasp burrs off
In slivers thin as hair, true
Only to slanted grooves cut
Across your tempered spine.
I'd laugh when my father said
Rat-tail. Now, slim as hope
& solid as remorse
In your red mausoleum,
Whenever I touch you
I crave something hard.
(I smell sawdust and my grandpa when I read this.)
PS. If you can, try your hand at giving some of the others a bit of feedback. If you already have, thanks, can you do some more?