Gordon Scapens
Guilt is an Art
I say the name over
then write it down,
make it into a poem
that looks like her face,
complete with moving parts.
If I pull this line here
watch the mouth move.
It is saying things
in words I recognize
but do not understand.
Look at the ears twitch.
They detect hesitation
in my uncertain voice,
fill in all the holes
that footprint conversation.
But the eyes bother me.
They look like the debris
from a tortured ocean
seeking an exposed beach
to come home to.
As though she wants me
responsible for the tears.
Page(s) 40
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