Editor's note: Today I learned that Cami Park recently passed away. Cami was a gifted writer and generous reviewer. She will be missed.
What do I have to say for myself?
I have neither words, nor the common
sense he gave me. I hold out
my hand and he takes
my palm, scowling at his fractured
script, the hand of a careless doctor.
He releases me, grunts.
Do I have any feedback for him?
my palm is blank
like fields after snowfall
like lies told to children
I tell him well, patriarchy sucked,
so fuck you for that. And evil, did that
have to be so damned banal?
But music, I tell him, music,
that was good. And colors, too.
I liked colors.
First published in No Tell Motel in February 2005
More poems by Cami:
Mourner at Beslan
When Good Cholesterol Goes Bad