Poetry

David Scholes

By

Lianne Kamp

Identity Theft

Their faces were framed in the truck window. Contorted

from the rage or maybe from the shape of the words

that flew out of their mouths. Their arms flying, middle fingers

everywhere. I was stunned by their twisted torsos, relieved

the winter air kept them caged behind glass and metal,

contained the sound and shape of their riled testosterone.

I thought if only I could explain why I didn’t let them out

they would tie up their tongues in apologies but I knew

they were too far gone for a U turn. I swallowed the injustice,

choking on the image of their misshapen faces, aware they

had looked me in the eyes, captured my image, and used it to

fan the flames of their disproportionate hostility.

I have been framed for their burnt toast, shitty bosses,

lack of sleep, cheating wife, no wife, one too many wives,

ageing parents, dead parents, crappy parents. I am everything

that’s ever been wrong with America. I have been carved up,

raped, and violated in the cab of their truck.

The panic I feel is identity theft.  I want my face back.

Lianne Kamp

I came to Boston many years ago to write poetry.  Although I never abandoned poetry altogether, life had different plans for me. I have rediscovered the importance of writing and over the last year have been published in a number of Prolific Press journals. Mainly, I write poetry to make my world more panoramic by watching it more closely.