My Language
J
James McLain
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My Language
is but the hook that becomes
lodged in the eye
that I see you behold.
Do you think I'm on drugs.
Do you think I am dirty.
Without teeth
trying to squeeze between your smile.
Words to me what they are
but automatic writing an art that will die
when I do.
Then come to another a form of autism
that drinks from the breast
from want of another
when left bereft all alone.
If I am dirty what is a shower a shower of
rain that brings forth your flower
to bloom needing room to grow.
What if a tooth I need are there not dentists
to fill in a gap that spot where your vain
that very first impression,
you saw then walked away, thinking me what.
Words are to me but what chess is to kings
but without a good queen whats too love.
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