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One Poem from Mira Christie

 

Things left around an old house


A glass half filled with water
in the living room
another two rooms away, empty

scatterings of clothes on sofas

Me, with not enough time to do
anything but press my aching spine
into the back of an old office chair
and fantasize of being fucked
out the doldrums of lower class white poverty

The stench of your words in the air
the breath of your shoes left by doors
airing out their foul commentary

Every sight in here makes me sick
makes me want to put on comfortable shoes
and run


 

When not distracted by life's trivialities, including her job, Mira Christie writes poems. She writes things off the cuff sometimes. She writes to release or to shock. Either way, she must write. Mira is 30, married and still trying to figure what the hell to do with her life.



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