MIDDLE CLASS
Poem by Mirabel
I am a living being: strangely pulse-bodied, But from where else comes the heart Only a half-remembered thought, No, just turn away, let the feelings go Oh, they won't leave, so we may as well grieve Everything I thought I had in me flees to a better country, moves to a newer home Furnished, short term rentals, late night check in and out of your state of existence: it's only accidental. Don't hold onto the staircase. Don't stay up too late. You'll never make it upstairs, you'll take this weight to your grave. But the cutlery drawer speaks to me, my neighbour laughs, but this joke's not for me. Downstairs, the same old beat, repeat on repeat. Now, clean up after your timid feet. It's time to see what the poets have been writing about, it's time to forget another day. But don't linger in the corridor, there's deep laughter there. I know you wish you could know it, but when you look you tend to stare. I'm tired of upper-class neighbours and working-class despair. I'm always setting the table but the feast's never there. I'm cleaning the glasses we never bring out, the forks we've so closely held. Oh, the markets going to crash, they say it'll take years to make repair. We can knock ourselves off, but the chessboard demands to be played. So hold my hand, darling, I know The shame makes you want to glare but we haven't lost anything that was ours, because nothing was ever really there. |
About the Writer
Mirabel, holds a B.A. in English Literature and Linguistics from McGill University. Mirabel's work has appeared in places such as carte blanche, Dream Pop, and Déraciné Magazine, among others. Presently, Mirabel edits poetry and prose for Persephone’s Daughters, a literary magazine devoted to survivors of abuse. Her debut collection, DREAM FRAGMENTS, came out in fall 2020 from Montreal's Cactus Press. Keep up with Mirabel's writing on Twitter @akmokha.
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