Wednesday, March 01, 2006

in a copper pot

in a copper pot... by elizabeth mckinnon

This little dark kitchen
This still, small flame
Take me to this burning place

My protests give way
And I melt
Under ever-watchful eyes

A comfortable warm

Then I'm sweating and I'm panting and I'm crying

Then the slow melt.

Giving in
Like a thousand times before.

I've managed to forget the pain every time.

Now an aroma is rising,
a fowl stench
And the eyes still closely watching.

Ever melting
Ever breaking
Ever rising

3 Comments:

Blogger YOU DONT KNOW MEEEeeee said...

i used to have the complete works of emily dickinson and id read it to this little camper at camp (obviously) who was like...7...so that she would sleep. it was good times. not that that has anything to do with anything...
if i was a copper pot...that would be weird.
i started blobbing again, too. arent you proud of me?

12:30 PM  
Blogger Aurora said...

Jaime stole my sunglasses. Why can't I be mad at her? It must be Jesus.

8:34 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

you might wanna check your comments rach, and delete some...
luv ya, waiting for your next blog
kat.

3:33 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home