Dusting away the cobwebs (Rewrite)
Open the oven and out pops the cabbage,
We all gawk, stare, and shake rattles
Until we get bored and set it in dusty drawers
With our colored forks and paper plates.
What is maternal about putting babies in cages?
Fireflies play leapfrog in the night,
In inanimate luminance of pinks, oranges, and creams,
Deluging the smell of early morning graveyards,
They put in bottles and call Jennifer Lopez
For housewives to saturate in before tupperware parties.
I dance with you in my head,
Wondering if I will be the next Cinderella story,
Playing with the cobwebs in the corners of the ballroom,
Watching you take the hands of others from behind sullen eyes
Kissing the spider in hopes to find a princess.
In the bubble wrap garage sale of my mind,
I hang red drapery for the curtain calling,
Watching you perform from the wings of the theatre,
Always waiting in the wings, my script is empty,
For dialogue as a drama queen with stage fright.
Hearts are funny things
Like Japanese car commercials that are my holy texts,
I could be your Bible
Lacking cheap animation or men in lip sticks,
But I am no Jewish doctor and will not bare curly haired children.
My poems are tinsel decoration for the declarations
That I brainstorm on steamed shower doors.
My journals are rotten with bad poetry
As I write with no consequence of censoring,
Your presence absent from early rhymes.
What will you write on life’s blank pages?
My ballet slippers no longer fit for my ankles have grown far to fat.
But I do not know how to use a graphing calculator
To calculate the rest of my life’s dance,
So I break my toes to fit into your shoes.
We all gawk, stare, and shake rattles
Until we get bored and set it in dusty drawers
With our colored forks and paper plates.
What is maternal about putting babies in cages?
Fireflies play leapfrog in the night,
In inanimate luminance of pinks, oranges, and creams,
Deluging the smell of early morning graveyards,
They put in bottles and call Jennifer Lopez
For housewives to saturate in before tupperware parties.
I dance with you in my head,
Wondering if I will be the next Cinderella story,
Playing with the cobwebs in the corners of the ballroom,
Watching you take the hands of others from behind sullen eyes
Kissing the spider in hopes to find a princess.
In the bubble wrap garage sale of my mind,
I hang red drapery for the curtain calling,
Watching you perform from the wings of the theatre,
Always waiting in the wings, my script is empty,
For dialogue as a drama queen with stage fright.
Hearts are funny things
Like Japanese car commercials that are my holy texts,
I could be your Bible
Lacking cheap animation or men in lip sticks,
But I am no Jewish doctor and will not bare curly haired children.
My poems are tinsel decoration for the declarations
That I brainstorm on steamed shower doors.
My journals are rotten with bad poetry
As I write with no consequence of censoring,
Your presence absent from early rhymes.
What will you write on life’s blank pages?
My ballet slippers no longer fit for my ankles have grown far to fat.
But I do not know how to use a graphing calculator
To calculate the rest of my life’s dance,
So I break my toes to fit into your shoes.