Misanthrope

Cindy King

I hate the sound of the human voice
as it bursts from the radio
at sunrise, when yellow holds its breath
and pretends again to be orange.
Daybreak: blood in the palm of morning,
prison-soap pink spilling onto the horizon
in the so-what of dawn.
I hate the sight of the human form
casting shadows on the grass at midday,
when sky blue becomes handicap in the anti-
freeze of the green afternoon. The full sun
streaming caution tape in the what-difference-
does-it-make of day.
I hate the scent of the human body
as it sweats in the subway. The earwax
of the setting sun, sunlight shines
through a prescription bottle
in the whatever of evening.
I hate the touch of the human hand
as it bids farewell. The suffocation
blue of sunset, when the moon rises
like grease cooling in a cast iron skillet
in the never-mind of twilight.
I hate the taste of the human heart
rising bitterly in my throat. Dusk
like a spike of black
ice growing from a stovepipe,
darkness, the dead eye of the stove.
In the biting, wordless, get-on-with-it of night,
love me.

 

Originally from Cleveland, Ohio, Cindy E. King currently lives in Lancaster, Texas, where she is an Assistant Professor of English at the University of North Texas Dallas. Her most recent publications include poems in Callaloo, North American Review, African American Review, American Literary Review, jubilat, and Barrow Street. Her work can be heard online on American Weekend and at RHINO Poetry. 

 

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