Reading
I tried to sneak in quietly. I didn’t mean
for the heavy door to squeal. It seemed
everyone turned to stare down my searing face
which blossomed cherry, and I think
especially the speaker must have minded
my late entrance to the reading.
I stole an empty seat. The poet began reading
one of her nature poems, whose subtle meaning
easily escaped me as my wandering mind
adapted to the new environment. It seemed
that suddenly I couldn’t really think
about the gushing words because your face
caught me off-guard. I snapped around to face
front. Fighting to focus on the reading –
enveloped in sensuality until I’d think
about your tiny gesture’s meaning.
I wasn’t ready for you, though it seemed
I knew you’d be here in the back of my mind.
Once I heard you scoff and I minded
my own business for a minute, but your face
a poker tell if only to me, seemed
to contort with disgust at the reading
of a certain line. You’re demeaning.
It’s not fair of you to think
that the poet didn’t think
the metaphor through. I know your mind
and you don’t have to be so mean.
Your lack of manners effaced
the artist’s well-earned reading.
I should have known, it seems,
you were wrong before we started. You seemed
so exciting at the time. To think
the poet wasn’t worth a reading,
because in your own more capable mind
you craft better lines, well you just don’t want to face
the painful emotions behind her meaning.
I never quite know what your glances mean. I seem
to find fondness on your face, but then again I used to think
we were so like-minded. I’m just no good at readings.
- Danielle Blake