Questions In The Mind Of A Poet While She Washes Her Floors
|by Elena Georgiou
Because tonight I have so many questions that are going unanswered, pinging around my skull like so much buck shot. I can’t think, I can’t do anything but wait for the tide to come.
Will obedience leave me unknown to myself, stranded?
Is it enough for me to know where I’m from?
If I do more truth-telling will I be happier with what I say?
If I had three days to live would I still be sensible?
Is the break between my feelings and my memory
Am I a peninsula slowly turning into an island?
If I grew up gazing at the ocean would I think
If I were a nomad would I measure time
If I can see a cup drop to the floor and shatter
If a surgeon cut out my mistakes
How much time will I spend protecting myself
Would my desires destroy my politics?
Is taboo sex the ultimate aphrodisiac?
If I fall in love with the wrong person
Can I make my intuition into a divining rod?
Is music the closest I can get to God?
How many of these questions will remain
What are the questions that assault you in moments of silence?