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Installment One: Poems by Patty Pforte
My Name Is, A Chalk Outline
I am chalk outline
fill me with what I am.
Decorate me.
For I am just an outline.
Rub me out, redefine me.
I am just spread across pavement,
waiting for someone, an artist,
young child
to make me into
something.
I was once three-dimensional with a voice that rang from a voice box.
Slowly,
so slow that I shrugged it off,
I began to lose my insides.
Personality, intelligence, emotions were the first to spill out.
I cupped my heart as the empathy leaked out and into drains.
I held my head as my wit dripped from my ears.
I was porous, full of invisible holes.
I smiled as I became less and less
defined
and more and more
flat.
Suddenly the physicality of my form eroded.
I lost flesh and fat,
the form of my breasts gave way to a slight white line.
My face lost freckles and cheek bones, again defined by a simple, white line.
I was that line.
I had lost my fullness
my name
my gravity
to be
flat against cold cement.
My Name Is, A Chalk Outline
I am chalk outline
fill me with what I am.
Decorate me.
For I am just an outline.
Rub me out, redefine me.
I am just spread across pavement,
waiting for someone, an artist,
young child
to make me into
something.
I was once three-dimensional with a voice that rang from a voice box.
Slowly,
so slow that I shrugged it off,
I began to lose my insides.
Personality, intelligence, emotions were the first to spill out.
I cupped my heart as the empathy leaked out and into drains.
I held my head as my wit dripped from my ears.
I was porous, full of invisible holes.
I smiled as I became less and less
defined
and more and more
flat.
Suddenly the physicality of my form eroded.
I lost flesh and fat,
the form of my breasts gave way to a slight white line.
My face lost freckles and cheek bones, again defined by a simple, white line.
I was that line.
I had lost my fullness
my name
my gravity
to be
flat against cold cement.
We Talk...
We used to talk
in all ways
communication flowed easily
boredom in life turned into excited conversations
Phone calls
Unexpected visits...
Late nights were bathed in laughter or debate.
So much to say!
I was bursting with words
and
language seemed to be our gate-keeper, holding in phrases and statements.
I wrote you notes in my head
but
never scrolled anything about love
just things upon things.
We just talked,
incessantly,
peevishly,
until our throats had nothing.
We spoke
devoid of gravity.
Words floating
and landing
nowhere.
Your words were like carrier pigeons caught on barbed wire.
My words were like weights on my soul's ankles
We sank...
We could have signed or flipped Venetian blinds.
Spoke in code through tin cans.
But our words would never become action.
Sticky, unhealthy action.
Words, made real through our talking
are meaningless.
Words are just the paper flags of peace.
They are not the round table discussion.
We used to talk...
Throwing up hollow, chocolate covered sayings.
Presenting, detailing, providing evidence of our lives.
Arguing into a dark and deep silence.
That silence was awkward!
As if the words told us who we were,
identities masked in ...
a name
a quote
an empty, smelly phrase.
But this is just a poem
meaning nothing,
without a touch or
a glint of a tearing eye,
a scream that shatters glass.
Words are not emotion.
They do not yell - but your angered throat does.
They do not crack - a voice of sadness does.
They represent - but they are not it.
We talked
always
into the night
and in the morning
until the words cracked open and exposed
the lack of meaning behind them.
We stopped...
because there was nothing left to say.
I miss the flatness of our conversations.
the domesticity of our talks.
There was a feeling of being held closely
but distantly.
But I want my words to shatter
that.
To feel like I do.
Not just to say it but to make it
perform
sing
to produce
change shape
and to be silent...
Our talks lasted all night long
everyday
but the silence is always
was always more real.
We used to talk
in all ways
communication flowed easily
boredom in life turned into excited conversations
Phone calls
Unexpected visits...
Late nights were bathed in laughter or debate.
So much to say!
I was bursting with words
and
language seemed to be our gate-keeper, holding in phrases and statements.
I wrote you notes in my head
but
never scrolled anything about love
just things upon things.
We just talked,
incessantly,
peevishly,
until our throats had nothing.
We spoke
devoid of gravity.
Words floating
and landing
nowhere.
Your words were like carrier pigeons caught on barbed wire.
My words were like weights on my soul's ankles
We sank...
We could have signed or flipped Venetian blinds.
Spoke in code through tin cans.
But our words would never become action.
Sticky, unhealthy action.
Words, made real through our talking
are meaningless.
Words are just the paper flags of peace.
They are not the round table discussion.
We used to talk...
Throwing up hollow, chocolate covered sayings.
Presenting, detailing, providing evidence of our lives.
Arguing into a dark and deep silence.
That silence was awkward!
As if the words told us who we were,
identities masked in ...
a name
a quote
an empty, smelly phrase.
But this is just a poem
meaning nothing,
without a touch or
a glint of a tearing eye,
a scream that shatters glass.
Words are not emotion.
They do not yell - but your angered throat does.
They do not crack - a voice of sadness does.
They represent - but they are not it.
We talked
always
into the night
and in the morning
until the words cracked open and exposed
the lack of meaning behind them.
We stopped...
because there was nothing left to say.
I miss the flatness of our conversations.
the domesticity of our talks.
There was a feeling of being held closely
but distantly.
But I want my words to shatter
that.
To feel like I do.
Not just to say it but to make it
perform
sing
to produce
change shape
and to be silent...
Our talks lasted all night long
everyday
but the silence is always
was always more real.
