You asked me what was wrong,
and I said ‘nothing’,
in the way I do,
when you ask me what is wrong.
This question,
with its repetitive resonance
and itchy feel
seems to draw my blood
and rub salt over me.
I’m a puritan in a rock t-shirt
who likes her bed made
with hospital corners and
carefully placed throw pillows.
Discarded wisdom and
misspent truths go unmissed
until I notice my pockets
are lined with dirt.
I’m a sage
with a cracked foundation,
selling truth and judgment
to those who look to buy.
I’m the cleric
who sells religion,
yet doesn’t understand,
the language of
her own forked tongue.
A sinner in white,
and maidenhead red.
A glass-topped lake
of unknown depth
in January.
Austerity gives birth to guile
and contemplation breeds
ravaging panic,
but the surface is
satin smooth
and you always lean to touch.
Where’s the Libran balance
that I need to sleep peacefully?
Toss and turn,
twist and sigh
all because
those corners weren’t
tight enough.
You see me gnarled
and knotted in the sheets
and in my head,
yet still lean in
and politely ask,
what’s wrong?
Nothing, I say,
nothing.
Tara Teeling
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/encounter-with-a-virgo/
