bound. (poem on a blackberry)

by chandra smith


every last thing i’ve heard from you
leaves my words bound –
to my lips
tethered to the back of my
      throat
tied, like doves by their feet
to a pole cruel by existing,
by keeping a living thing
from doing what it was
created for –
so
i can’t say anything –
it’s already all
on the cutting room floor.
like the insides of elbows
of
paper dolls.
wind. draft.
don’t turn on
the fan.

humiliated.
but couldn’t tear myself my eyes away as though i was cheating or stealing but the only victim in the room was me.
Or Manny.

(was i a participant in this game? it would seem not due to such protest of earlier.)

he was an innocent little fucker, and saved me from the ultimate humiliation. (or did he seal me in it?) would i not have been saved if he had turned to look at what Ben was showing him in his... pride. i was relieved, but what did he really save me from? did he steal?
(i had wanted to obey. but not that way. not that way).

what i felt was torn but truth i was bound.
by
what i wanted.
what was happening
      forced to show myself
      not being looked at
      his other girlfriend. somewhere else. in another room.
probably not as bright.
nor dirty.




Chandra Smith is living and working in LA in the vast. There are large vats of film and tape and she likes being caught coddled in the web and wrought useful. She changes her name and her medium and still isn’t sure “screenwriting is not writing” is true. She’s told these days there is poetry in film in poetry. She tends to be a believer.

bright nor dirty


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