There is no difference between me and my shadow
There is no difference
between my shadow and other shadows.
We are blurred around the edges
dark haired, gray tinged.
Today on Fourth St. my son mistook
the prostitute on the corner as me.
Both of us sport dark hair and lust
for blue eye shadow.
Mother as whore but who wore it better?
My hands still boast the marks
from the time I was crucified
on the hood of a flowered Volkswagen Beetle.
The Love Bug and the shining glory
of Nazi efficiency. They stole the idea
from a Jew but claimed Hitler drew
the signature sloped front on a napkin.
I wrote this poem on a napkin.
No Smoking signs are everywhere
on fire hoses, over urinals, at the bottom
of swimming pools.
Each day babies rise
in revolution, puff cigarettes
in their bassinets.
The deaf sing discordant
harmonies immune to their own clamor.
Everyone must choose--
will you be the diva
trying to quench the cacophony
or will you dive among them and be immune?
I prefer to throw myself in a sea
of stones where pebbles hard and jagged
spark against each other
radiate greens and indigos--
Speak, Beautiful, be my drowning.
Krysia Orlowski lives in Cleveland, Ohio. When not scribbling poems on the backs of envelopes or kids art projects, she assembles notebooks out of Lego boxes, herds cats, and grills killer cheese sandwiches.