Self-Portrait in Coffee Carafe
with a line from Yusef Komunyaka
|
Broken blood vessels pool underneath
my skin creating a bruise resembling my home
state, I’ll spend more time thinking about the bruise
than what caused it — probably a clumsy knock
into the dinner table if we’re being honest.
While we’re being honest, I’ve been thinking about landscape,
the places where we grow, the land
we long to escape — suddenly,
my bruise starts to throb – my mouth dries,
and I sit alone in an office to write
this poem. I start thinking about all the telephone lines
I’ve looked through, slitting the sky. I think about the corner
coffee shop, try to depict a self-portrait
in a carafe. You should know,
my heart is starting to race a little bit more
as I think about this. Resisting the urge
to look out the window, I begin thinking about my childhood
bedroom, which had two windows, a chalkboard square,
and lockers with sports heroes at the time of their painting --
I even had a locker with my childhood nickname on it; a gift
my father gave me because of the way I danced to the movie The Jungle Book.
I went through at least three VHS tapes, to the point of ruining the film
from constant re-watching, which I can’t help but recognize
as something I still do, even though as my life’s filament begins to fade --
I wrote before I wrote to remember — a skill I have honed
in time. I used to need a tangible thing to remember — old notebooks,
a two sizes too small sweatshirt, both provided comfort in a way
I really can’t explain, but if you’re reading this, you already know
those feelings. I want to go back to my childhood home, steal a cup of dirt
from my mother’s garden, and grow a tree to protect me when the sun beats down
mercilessly — a hard sun for a hardened son. I’m trying to be softer --
I want you to know that, but there’s a difference
between being open and vulnerable and exposed --
I don’t think I have those words right just now. I’m telling you
my limitations because I’m only a man, cut me & I bleed--
those words have been permanently stuck in my brain since I read them.
Eventually this bruise will fade. Eventually
the damage done will be healed. But, if you know anything,
you should know I hate the word eventually.
my skin creating a bruise resembling my home
state, I’ll spend more time thinking about the bruise
than what caused it — probably a clumsy knock
into the dinner table if we’re being honest.
While we’re being honest, I’ve been thinking about landscape,
the places where we grow, the land
we long to escape — suddenly,
my bruise starts to throb – my mouth dries,
and I sit alone in an office to write
this poem. I start thinking about all the telephone lines
I’ve looked through, slitting the sky. I think about the corner
coffee shop, try to depict a self-portrait
in a carafe. You should know,
my heart is starting to race a little bit more
as I think about this. Resisting the urge
to look out the window, I begin thinking about my childhood
bedroom, which had two windows, a chalkboard square,
and lockers with sports heroes at the time of their painting --
I even had a locker with my childhood nickname on it; a gift
my father gave me because of the way I danced to the movie The Jungle Book.
I went through at least three VHS tapes, to the point of ruining the film
from constant re-watching, which I can’t help but recognize
as something I still do, even though as my life’s filament begins to fade --
I wrote before I wrote to remember — a skill I have honed
in time. I used to need a tangible thing to remember — old notebooks,
a two sizes too small sweatshirt, both provided comfort in a way
I really can’t explain, but if you’re reading this, you already know
those feelings. I want to go back to my childhood home, steal a cup of dirt
from my mother’s garden, and grow a tree to protect me when the sun beats down
mercilessly — a hard sun for a hardened son. I’m trying to be softer --
I want you to know that, but there’s a difference
between being open and vulnerable and exposed --
I don’t think I have those words right just now. I’m telling you
my limitations because I’m only a man, cut me & I bleed--
those words have been permanently stuck in my brain since I read them.
Eventually this bruise will fade. Eventually
the damage done will be healed. But, if you know anything,
you should know I hate the word eventually.
Stephen J. FurlongStephen Furlong is a poet living outside Kansas City, Missouri with his wife and cat. He currently serves as an adjunct instructor in the English Department at Metropolitan Community College - Longview. His poems and reviews have appeared in Flypaper Lit, EcoTheo Review, and Louisiana Literature, among others.
T // @StephenJFurlong |