2/3/2018 Poetry by Laurie KolpWalking a Fine Line Suddenly I’m not breathing anymore. Lightness lifts from my eyelids like a suction, the urge to follow it exhaustive my will to keep still in this body, to fill my lungs with air and thoughts with empathy not strong enough. Through a tunnel I follow adrenaline’s illuminated thrill until I’m a storm cloud rolling in, looking down on you. Thunder thrums from inside of me as if Thor lived there all along. My mouth opens, cracked-voice trails, angry yells encircle you, exhaling ember on bare body, a rush explosive. Slashing bolts: how they defer unaffected deception. I never knew blood- shot-slap-clawed shallow breaths of revenge like this. From above, I watch you writhe in fiery words, a child. Suddenly I witness a wheeze of wounded ego depart from your heart and embrace me. I rain upon you all of my regret. The rage sizzles out. I land back on my feet, can breathe again. Now I am touching you, holding you, loving everything about us, loving forgiveness. (Don’t) Tell Me… Tonight, I spend a thousand minutes inside myself. When I first enter, I step on sticker burs, my heel like a knife, the wall I kick. Further in, I trip on dangling hackberry branches, later land on a lone layer of mesquite thorns. All alone, alone, alone… I am lost in limbo. Mosquitoes bite my arms I slap fire—hot fire growing wilder: neurotic thoughts deepen. Within myself the unfamiliar tongues me different. If I had only listened to your implicit voice telling me to come with you outside myself. Maybe then I might have become teachable. The Relapse I am tripping out on threadbare hillsides-- ephemeral apparitions worship the ground. I gather patches of regret and toss them across clear rocks. Swarming purple dust collides with Perseus, I turn to stone. A spirit rushes through me like a thunderbolt and turns me docile once again. A Quilt for the Cedar Chest I’ve considered covering up my guilt with a quilt; hand-sewn, patch by patch a scratch of childhood memories packed taut in downy blanket. Piece by piece, a scrap of me from when I gauged my self-esteem inch by inch, no fat to pinch or gelatin thighs to vex blind eyes. I’ve thought about depravity, lengths I’d take to escape warpedness inside my head doubt of who I was beneath the tufted edge, a cushion. Acquit this quilt of guilt that I conclude is not for me. Place it in your cedar chest with all the things compressed, all the things I will not forget. Bio: Laurie Kolp’s poems have appeared in Stirring, Whale Road Review, concis, Up the Staircase, and more. Her poetry books include the full-length Upon the Blue Couch and chapbook Hello, It's Your Mother. An avid runner and lover of nature, Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children, and two dogs. Comments are closed.
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