A Poem by Erundur Anwamehtar
12/05/2002
The chair’s swivel breaks
the silence.
I never fear death
stares until the moment the chair slides
backward on the white tiles.
She stands five-foot-nine.
Her tall shoes help us
see eye to eye in disagreement.
Now the spar ends with disembowelment
of pride.
I fight after losing.
It defies logic, or niceness;
I do my worst.
My words say her artificial exterior is empty,
a simple sponge vase, always losing.
Our wrangle finishes with a dual
loss.
I will never grow,
but remain a fruitless fig tree.
Her roots shrivel.
