Immobility ConsideredAm I patient, dear? Of course, I'm not.
I'm devoid of quietude. I moan. I chafe.
I tell myself each minute to turn toward
The door. I'm most disturbed when
You are near, close enough for me
To touch, though you are mute,
And show no sign of realizing I am
There. I wait, still hoping you will
Thaw, and animate your love for me,
But I don't do so out of patience.
“Subjugation” is the term. Even with
Your arms kept to your sides, you
Have a grip on me.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 43 times
Written on 2016-12-22 at 23:29
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