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Rosa Saba - 2


a love that didn't love back  ☊

a love that tried to lo
​ve back
(hard)
but failed, stepped on by experience
dragged away by abandoned words
taking their revenge
(softly, slowly)
a love that began like the crash of drums
into a song that went on
with a bridge spanning miles
and a chorus just bright enough
to make me believe
(hard)
this love could love us back, and stay
past the end of the show, through the slow shuffle
of a drunken crowd
and i'd take your hand
(naturally)
and lead you home
(steadily)
and show you my mind
(carefully)
but this love recoiled
(fearfully)
and did not love again

bus ride

the unbalanced couple
perched, one animated and the other just a sketch
barely listening
he who turns the wheel, winds the headlights 
through twisted streets, tries to greet them all
but fails with some, only turning his eyes forward
with a sigh and driving on
the man there, at the front
half-chuckling, half-crying
maybe at the music in his ears
or maybe at the knives in his stomach
hands clutching each other, twisting
forearms pressed into that place
scuffed shoes tapping out the rhythm of addiction
into the floor of the bus, always dirty with the secrets
people drop on their way to the back
where a girl sits, eyes half-shut but ears open
feeling the tension, examining the moments
that pass, slow and fast
before she pulls the cord, steps down
and exits 

at last
​

i cannot

shy stutter of a thought
scurrying across rough rock and diving
headfirst into cold white water
so as not to be heard, unlike
the wilted sigh from pinched lips
that draws eye contact then breaks it
like waves upon those stones

syllables soft and jumping
through valleys, over jagged mountains
just to reach ears clouded
with assumptions and a failing effort
to tune it all out
skinny fingers gripping a skull
through wild, upset hair
hands coming to rest uneasily
within each other, still shaking from the strain

or maybe it's the cold that cuts edges
into my shoulders, ties the laces tighter across my back
pinching me into place as i twist inside
looking away a thousand times, and trying
but i cannot unwind, i cannot open myself

to you

frostbite

april cut into the frozen city
with long fingernail scratches
of running water and suddenly brown gardens
the air fell heavy onto the eaves
of houses eager to open their doors

i stepped out and spoke
into a space filled with spring
guess i was just trying to hurry things along
trying to warm the air
trying to clear the path
trying to make some sense of this transition

the dragging pace at which winter melted away

i stepped out, leaned forward
and spoke
too soon
because the mercury sank back into the glass
rain became needles, trees frosted thread
threatening to sew winter back into the sky
and the air retreated 
into a dull but biting winter chill
as if afraid of my open chest
displaying december's frostbite
and january's cold words

and i apologized silently
to the city and myself
for thinking winter could be defeated so easily
​

self doubt, a nightly ritual

i’m here again, inches away
from the surface of the bathroom mirror
at an unhealthy angle
twisting my vision
back and forth
frowning, smiling, frowning again
watching craters turn back into pores
as i move away
then back again
scrutinizing
each and every hair, every line
every possible sign
that i might be human
the bathroom mirror
has me convinced that i am
and as i turn my head the other way
trying to see if my profile is any better
than it was yesterday
i can’t help but wonder
after seeing myself up close
how it is that you could stand to kiss me
but then again
i guess your eyes are closed

Picture

Rosa Saba's profile
​
Go to page 1 of Rosa Saba's poetry

Spill

ice before they even hit the ground, words spill
forwards onto dark pavement, and
backwards into my shallow shadow
down into winter ground, and warmly
into my frozen palms, shoved neatly
into empty pockets, empty letters forming words
spilling out into dirty snow
drowning meaning, covering sound, forcing feeling
to retreat, words spill
meaningless, ice before they even make their mark
beautiful, maybe
but silent
​

Something Silent

that
empty/heavy 
feeling

a walking oxymoron
moron
the little voice says
for even trying 

morning feels choking, grainy
afternoon is soft and sinking
evening drags on, kicking up the day's dust
night is calm but the mind still paces
and morning comes again 

words are hard to chew 
thoughts are slow and weary 
like two tired and dirty feet that must keep walking 

I must keep walking, breathing
seeming fine through seething teeth
lines buried in the sand between my brows are telling 
something silent

that
empty/heavy
feeling
​

the choice

snow hardens, 
bones snap 
under our feet as we struggle 
through the white, packed streets

it falls softly, but with a sort of insistence
like a misplaced love, an overbearing figure
blanketing the ground 
as if to say

this is what is best
trust me


and the softness becomes hardness
becomes difficulty 
as cars spin and stick
skin freezes and visibility shrinks

perhaps the damage is unseen,
not recognizable 
in each snowflake, but

i wish you could see the final effect
as a city is shut down by this well-meaning powder

and we are split open
by this well-meaning love of yours, 
misplaced, misdirected 

this is not your puzzle to finish 
not your picture to paint 

not your city to burden
not your choice to make
​

in control

the wind has lessened its grip on this house, and now 
with the air settling 'round the eaves and twirling the leaves from the trees 
lazily down to the ground, i have been released, hair pulled back 
from my face and eyes closed as i stretch across the furniture 
and breathing steady, i am in control 

the sun has kickstarted summer with a sudden shower 
of light, followed by wayward, anxious raindrops that refuse to hit hard 
instead burying themselves in my collarbone and sinking into my skin 
like grey patches that melt away the sun's warmth, and today 
i was nothing but cold, and yet warm when i smiled at the sky 
and brought out my umbrella, knowing 
i am in control 

your hand has lengthened the lines that extend 
from my eyes, those pathways of expired smiles that left their mark 
as your fingers wipe rain from my cheeks as if it mattered to you 
(ever so much) 
that they stayed dry, and your palm may be damp with honesty now 
but you press it to mine and it's shared, and the knowledge 
that the seasons no longer matter is there, because 
warm and cold don't mean anything 
with this kind of control


nine lines

lyrics sharp and mind warm, like wax
waiting for words to press themselves deep
into skin ready for something other than silence
music fading into the shuffle of thoughts
and the creases between shaking fingers
barely held steady by each other, by tired palms
ragged nails biting skin, trying to soften the blow
of the realization that even pieces of poetry nine lines long
are unable to support this feeling

nine more lines

something about the words i've spilt 
forwards onto the concrete, covered by snow 
that no longer reminds me of time past, but now 
just reminds me of the time i have left 
of warm things, quiet music and cold air 
softer words than i have used in a very long time 
and suddenly, nine lines is enough to support this feeling, because 
this feeling flies on its own, and i am 
tagging along
​
Go to page 1 of Rosa Saba's poetry

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***

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