I am the story which happens to me.
We all have our story to tell—
mine was pretty—blades
gliding over hard, shiny ice.
I was determined to be loved
for my lines—svelte, taut.
Eventually, I began to notice
the world surrounding my frozen lake
was green. Summer. Needless to say,
I melted. Everything ran out.
It poured and poured—my story
didn’t know how to stop, didn’t know
it had an ending.
If the beautiful voice
is found sleeping
and you don’t know how to waken her
with your petal pleas and tender tickles
do you wait until she rouses
herself, refreshed and freshened
from the loose dreams
she corralled with the silk lasso
or do you shake her awake,
ply her with strong caffeine
question her forcefully
until she opens, spills…
“Some of my work has appeared in Barrow Street, Blue Fifth Review, canwehaveourballback, Columbia Poetry Review, Diner, Elixir, Phoebe, Shampoo, and The Diagram. I hold an MFA from The New School.” E-mail: kneuberg[at]hotmail.com.