Blogging & Poems, My Poems, My Writing Challenges

Screenwriter

 

                                                 . . . Stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes were dark
                                                 pits and my gums had turned a pulpy red. I seemed to
                                                 be looking at the portrait of

 

a man who hadn’t eaten a piece of fruit
in years—he’s skeletal

but somehow large. Reaches for me
as I go to sleep, touches

my tongue with two fingers

as if trying to taste the peaches
from the previous spring, holds my earlobes

for a long time. Hears wind
and leaves. In the morning, he is gone

again, no semblance of skin

or clothing left behind, and yet, I know
he is real. A shadow, a moth,

but existing. Without him, I’d forget
how to feel.

 

*

 

Taken from Charles D’Ambrosio’s “Screenwriter,” included in his collection, The Dead Fish Museum. His writing ends on the second line of the poem, “in years.”

 

 

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