poetry

Sometimes I Will Long for Talk at Two A.M.: Ode to the Night Owl. {poetry}

I will speak at night of everything dear and true to me, vulnerability beneath an amber streetlight

And it will empty from the chamber of my mouth, a hoarse whisper

For the space next to me is empty, the bedrooms of this house asleep

The curtains closed, unlike these long-lashed eyes that yes, sometimes, find themselves coated with tears for no apparent reason except a heaviness, that is not sleep, has overcome me

And I will long for talk at two a.m., answers to why the world can be so cold and cruel and why we seldom take comfort in the dark, with or without stars, the light touch of a palm or the heavy draped arm upon a waist or shoulder, ever reaching towards the stomach.

Sometimes this stomach is not full, no matter what I’ve eaten

This hollow pit wants a warmth not attained by what I can fill it with

The vessel that carries me is often content in the sunken solitude of a dim corner without speaking, and I wonder if my voice died, melted into the paper and graphite, the ink and I the same, but letters on paper don’t necessarily need a voice to be heard…

… yet more often that not, the world will not hear the girl

And at night, whispering my secrets to the moon, I wonder if through some cosmic array of light and dust you will hear me

My adolescent self always took comfort in the dark where I did not have to play the part bequeathed to me

I could make up my own

I could create my own home in these pages and someone would read me

Like tarot cards spread out along the bed, like tea leaves

Read me like she who feels the same electrocution of her twin

The jolt enough to spark whole sentences from within

Sometimes I can’t find the right words when I need them

And the tangle amassed is too knotted to work my tongue around

Who rarely has the patience to wait? So I stutter to false starts and watch the ignition give out

Someone else who is not me can speak

I will write you letters instead, I will sing operatic onto paper

I can use a pen to thread a woven sleeve you can slide your arm through just so you can hold my hand in the winter

And I will write you stories

I will make something lasting out of language and fill the spaces of translations with understanding

You will always know the meaning of the words I stitch into flesh

They were not empty when I stanched their blood

They were warm, and they were singing.

***

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Alise Versella
Alise Versella is a poet living at the Jersey Shore. She has published three volumes of poetry which can be found at her website, Barnes and Noble, and Amazon. Her work has been featured on Elephant Journal, Women's Spiritual Poetry blog, ultraviolettribe.com, The Tattooed Buddha, and of course here. She considers herself a coffee enthusiast and self-proclaimed dessert whore, who believes with every fiber of her being that poetry, beautiful poetry, can come from the ugliest of pain. Poetry can be the salve for all the broken parts, and it can make us whole.
Alise Versella