Musings by The Poet Loriet
Elimination Round
I. Door Prize
I'm not a door prize,
something to make you feel
like you won the game
on technicalities and errors.
I gave you a slice of my heart
and when I give a gift
of that magnitude,
it belongs to you forever,
a dying ember
that always carries the possibility
of being re-ignited.
II. Tokens
Game on.
Six months supply of Prozac.
Half of my nerve pills
(you put them in a bowl~
a BOWL! for Chrissakes,
on top of your toilet
and knocked them over,
my little white discs of sanity
flushed away).
My glamour portrait in
silk fuschia and white fur,
slid back under my door.
Avon's "Black Suede"
because with your divorce,
you lost your Avon lady.
Now I'm stuck with
a smelly reminder of you.
Drinking the Squirt you left
doesn't feel quite vindictive enough.
A lock of your hair,
a drop of your blood,
your nipple ring,
and a nice book of voodoo
from N'awleans.
Yeah, that might suffice.
III. Time Out (for team prayer)
I gave you my shoulder
when you needed to cry.
I gave you my arms
when you were scared
to be alone.
Then, when I needed you,
asked you to come over
and just hold me,
promised not to cry,
you told me no.
You needed to be alone.
I said, "Whatever!"
Exasperated, you sighed my name.
It hung in the silence.
I knew I couldn't handle
one more inning, one
more emotional conversation,
so I said, "Call me . . .
after another year of therapy."
You said, "Okay, I will,"
and I was left to cry
to a dial tone
as it flat-lined
and went dead
in my shaking hand.
Game over.
Lori Beal
I'm not a door prize,
something to make you feel
like you won the game
on technicalities and errors.
I gave you a slice of my heart
and when I give a gift
of that magnitude,
it belongs to you forever,
a dying ember
that always carries the possibility
of being re-ignited.
II. Tokens
Game on.
Six months supply of Prozac.
Half of my nerve pills
(you put them in a bowl~
a BOWL! for Chrissakes,
on top of your toilet
and knocked them over,
my little white discs of sanity
flushed away).
My glamour portrait in
silk fuschia and white fur,
slid back under my door.
Avon's "Black Suede"
because with your divorce,
you lost your Avon lady.
Now I'm stuck with
a smelly reminder of you.
Drinking the Squirt you left
doesn't feel quite vindictive enough.
A lock of your hair,
a drop of your blood,
your nipple ring,
and a nice book of voodoo
from N'awleans.
Yeah, that might suffice.
III. Time Out (for team prayer)
I gave you my shoulder
when you needed to cry.
I gave you my arms
when you were scared
to be alone.
Then, when I needed you,
asked you to come over
and just hold me,
promised not to cry,
you told me no.
You needed to be alone.
I said, "Whatever!"
Exasperated, you sighed my name.
It hung in the silence.
I knew I couldn't handle
one more inning, one
more emotional conversation,
so I said, "Call me . . .
after another year of therapy."
You said, "Okay, I will,"
and I was left to cry
to a dial tone
as it flat-lined
and went dead
in my shaking hand.
Game over.
Lori Beal
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Elimination Round
Elimination Round
