Three Poems by Sheila E. Murphy
let's have a fight and not
let's have a fight and not call it a fight let's call it a discussion let's restrain ourselves so what we say remains unsaid let's exchange what we have said we value and pretend that none of it exists let's also pretend we can survive as each not both let us reframe what we've declared as something other than and offer to recline decline incline lose spine as if were were one thing let's fail once and for all to be one thing let us insist upon our thoughts let's never talk let us think privately of how the world is for the world is this completely non-bombastic place let's say we live here both or each let us continue blocking off the senses from our minds let us invent new minds immune to other minds and think recall refresh resynch resist refine recline rescind recast
your tidiness is extrasensory your image, an amalgam of platonic sketch your heartbeat shatters nine-tenths of my privacy your accomplishments all in color even out the spectrum your indifference amounts to fluid sentiment your parts of speech conform to a specific dwarf peach tree your ubiquity infers the everlastingness of mathematics your columnar appearance speaks to substance your woodwind instruments afford white space your instincts all possess a lifetime of finesse your health wears every shawl still in your home your mantra is a blueblood microphone your nautical accountability allows the pond to remain round your singing voice is sterling in a white row your intellect appears contagious your leaning to monastic shelter braves me your violets tilt in the direction of new prescience your intergalactic downtime thrust into the figurative sea your infinity is my patch of morning glories very plurally endowed
a curfew called a cataract
it's blue. you do not dream what angles reify, they ply from carte blanche an identity, as one dismembers viaducts from flow through. art equals shield. delinquency from re(s)po(n)se sifts dark from light touch. buildings are all numb in brown. around the grace notes lie host hills. remember: dumb resistance mimics stone, tribunals full of fuss almost disclose their lack of inner fire. yet one aspires to join the ranks of the resemblances to power. on someone's shoulders, any joust is not-for-profit, and below the quasi-dance is not for stale observance. many playthings squeak and bounce. you know the drill: an ounce is worth caressive blooms of prayer. I'm on the case. you're on the case. something's about to blister, and it's not your skin. it's not my skin. it's the rosacea of distilled new captains of restraint, who store their feelings in quaint glottal stops.