Abduction

I was heading homeward by bus,
checking a shopping list.
When I saw Sainsbury’s on the corner,
I raised my hand to press the bell.
Just before I touched it,
a white hand came over my shoulder
and the bell rung.
A bright orange sign flashed saying
Bus stopping.
My eyes were dazzled
and I found myself suddenly disappeared.
The owner of the hand had me;
he pushed me inside his mind perfectly.
He even tucked my clothes into his thought,
except my green woolly hat.
He left it on the seat.
He got off the bus and read my shopping list -
chicken breast, onions, tomatoes.
He giggled.
He would go to the supermarket,
get all that stuff and
start cooking with a sharp knife.
I still sat on the seat as a hat.
The pompon on the top blossomed
like an anemone.
A girl approached me and
plucked one of the petals.

Key

Whenever I make a friend,
I create a key.
I write their names in my address book
and set out to mould brass.

I met a new secretary at work.
I stole a glance at her and
watched how she typed a letter.
It stuck on my memory.

I went home and incubated her image.
I made a thin key, mimicking her fingers.
I also made it jagged
to reproduce clutter of her typing.
I put a ring on the key and
hung on a hook
like hanging fish in a cellar.
I ticked her name in the address book.

At night
I stepped toward her house.
I inserted the key into the hole and turned it.

Lines

I live inside lines.
They are black and white
and crawl and lick my outline
like a snake.
My body wants to burst sometimes
but the lines keep me inside myself.
As I cannot escape from me,
my sad memory will not go away.

I have a mobile under my bra.
When I am overpowered by my past,
it vibrates.
I take it out from my breast
and press it to my ear.
I listen to the voice.
It doesn’t sound like mine.
It’s a mixture of young and old,
sometimes words of a child.
It keeps talking,
as if there was no receiving end.
I do not speak.
My lips become white.


Spit
“Whoever puts his hand on me to govern me is an usurper and a tyrant.” by Pierre-Joseph Proudhon

When he came back,
he was drenched to the skin.
On his way home,
everyone shouted at him
and dogs barked at him.
He was wet with spit of contempt.
His hair and moustache are sodden and miserable.
So I took off his head,
throwing it in to a washing machine.
The spin started.
His face, looking at me through the round window,
was rotating.
That speeded up.
From his hair and moustache,
water splashed away.
The more he dried, the more he regained confidence.
His smile is back.
When the machine stopped,
I took his head out
and put it back to his neck.
He laughed under his own power.