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Literature Text
"Was Egypt"
Last night I heard one of the stray cats
singing in the dark. His song
was rising into the trees where a few
wakeful starlings stopped their chatter
to tune in. This was no doubt
the calico that so often scurries away
when I approach, hides behind some large tires
or trash cans. Oh this soul, this soul,
he crooned, his tones rousing
the children next door, my lady, my lady,
my lady. Recently I caught his eyes,
one gold one green, as he perched on my stoop,
each holding pools of black oil. And so I've learned
of his eulogies, imagine him lying on his back
as he wails into the night, But once
was Egypt! And how I want to be his lady,
to cup his jaw and place rice upon his tongue
as he ends each chorus; this is the ache — his ache,
my ache — as curtains close
and your breath is not at my neck.
Last night I heard one of the stray cats
singing in the dark. His song
was rising into the trees where a few
wakeful starlings stopped their chatter
to tune in. This was no doubt
the calico that so often scurries away
when I approach, hides behind some large tires
or trash cans. Oh this soul, this soul,
he crooned, his tones rousing
the children next door, my lady, my lady,
my lady. Recently I caught his eyes,
one gold one green, as he perched on my stoop,
each holding pools of black oil. And so I've learned
of his eulogies, imagine him lying on his back
as he wails into the night, But once
was Egypt! And how I want to be his lady,
to cup his jaw and place rice upon his tongue
as he ends each chorus; this is the ache — his ache,
my ache — as curtains close
and your breath is not at my neck.
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written on ye olde train, 9/17
edits 10/17
EDIT: This piece was published in Pearl Issue 41: www.pearlmag.com/
removed from storage 7/21/13
edits 10/17
EDIT: This piece was published in Pearl Issue 41: www.pearlmag.com/
removed from storage 7/21/13
© 2007 - 2024 PinkyMcCoversong
Comments18
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was Egypt! And how I want to be his lady,
to cup his jaw and place rice upon his tongue
as he ends each chorus; this is the ache — his ache,
my ache — as heaven's curtains close each night
and your breath is not at my neck.
I'm caputred by this image, in one way or another. It definitely does something to me emotionally. The only thing that seems a bit cliché is the bit about heaven's curtains. Mayhap not cliché; maybe just a bit too...I don't know. That's something that I've seen used way too often in poetry. However, a great poem you've got here.
to cup his jaw and place rice upon his tongue
as he ends each chorus; this is the ache — his ache,
my ache — as heaven's curtains close each night
and your breath is not at my neck.
I'm caputred by this image, in one way or another. It definitely does something to me emotionally. The only thing that seems a bit cliché is the bit about heaven's curtains. Mayhap not cliché; maybe just a bit too...I don't know. That's something that I've seen used way too often in poetry. However, a great poem you've got here.