I’m not here, don’t look at me. Don’t scream when your children look at me, do you think bad dreams are contagious? Do you think I’ll breathe bad luck on your children? Suppose you’d spent the afternoon shining in your lover’s bed and then brought him home to meet your parents and they screamed “Don’t touch that, you don’t know where it’s been!” You can’t see me, I’m just a crack in your contact lens; I’m just a crack in your mirror. My hands are dirty. I’ve got your shadow under my fingernails, I can’t wash it out. I’ve got the shakes, my own skin isn’t speaking to me and I’m not speaking to you. I’m not here, I have no past, no memories, no name, not allowed. So I eat your memories like garbage, all your buried broken promises and the bad dreams you forge till you see me. Till you don’t see me. I’m not here.
If you’re able, please consider helping filmmaker Ken Paul Rosenthal complete the first cut of his independently produced documentary about Julia Vinograd by making a tax-deductible donation—in any amount—here. Watch the trailer and read more of Julia's poems, here.
You can find Julia’s works at www.Zeitgeist-Press.com along with many other great works from the Babarian poets.
Searing poem. Kudos. I agree, People on the street without a home are not hopeless and should not be seen as beyond help and hope, as too many people regard them.
What a perfect speech for a shadow part of us ...