Hi Elisa,
I wanted to offer my thoughts regarding your poem. Let me start with the impression I had upon reading the genre selections, and subtitle.
You selected (among others) Romance/Love, mentioned "flirt" and disillusionment. This sets me into an assumptive mode of a one sided romantic persuit.
1st read impression: A generic impression of a retail cloting store worker being hit on by a co-worker - most likely a person in a position of control or power higher than the "victim". The discomfort, awareness and ultimate verbal rejection are put forth in clear descriptives, but lack hard emotional ties.
Reread: Once I reread this, I felt stronger in regard to the telling. This reads mostly as a story, and while using some well placed and appropriate imagery, it comes across as a factual account, keeping me at bay - as an observer. Nothing here pulls me into the events. I wonder why such descriptive distaste and obvious disgust is left with a tone of melancholy. (perhaps it is an attempt at "been there, done that, I'm tired of you morons" - but the words say otherwise, so my conclusion is that it is lacking emotional intensity.)
I do have some thoughts regarding several stanza, and the message that is conveyed, so I will follow your text with comments in color.
I'll push you away,
yet you wander closer
to my inner core.
You creep up back behind me.I like how you make this physical and mental so early in the poem, it sets the depth. I do however, wonder if you are conflicted here, after pushing away, and still finding that there is a presence approaching your inner core. I read this as a mixed message, not as (what I believe you intend) starting to get under your skin in a bad way.
Clasping my shoulders,
mumblings flirting with my ears,
you invade my space,
not intending to let go. I am reading this, waiting to find an answer to the ambiguity. The lack of repulsion or harsh rebuke screams at me that this is accepted behavior, either as an ego boost, or secret desire. I am not ready to accept this - I wil reserve opinions for now.
I smell your shampoo,
a whiff of cloves and walnut.
Fingertips dig in
and stroke my woolen sweater. Descriptive, but it tells me nothing more than the fact that this person is close. Cloves and walnuts mean nothing to me other than it being masculine. "Fingertips dig in" adds to the masculinity, but adds an air of urgency or compulsion.
You just say hello.
Two ear-tickling syllables,
licking at my lobes
distract me from my folding.
All around us are
hoodies splashed in bold colors:
blue fleece and red wool.
We could squeeze into those wares.
No footsteps tread on
the wooden shop floors, so you
let your hands linger,
dig deeper into the wool.
I can feel the heat
float off your whispers. Your hands,
your voice pin me where
I stand in front of glass walls. I've decided to group these 4 stanza together for comment. They all say to me that this is entrancing, if not enchanting - nothing sounds/feels uncomfortable. I am convinced this is welcomed to some degree.
Hello-what a word!
Why not say it to my face?
Must you make a scene
for the shopping passers-by? Finally! disapproval of some sort.
Your grip loosens, but
you hold me, not letting go.
Now what did you say?
Doesn't matter; let me go. Ok, you've settled on "leave me alone", but is it due to the PDA, revulsion, professionalism, other committments?
I hear your chatter-
some rambling about the store,
praises for something.
But I can't listen to you. You're in your own world. Wanting to keep things professional, but you aren't listening. You're on tilt, and I am now expecting some implosion or overt over reaction.
Shifting my shoulders,
I wiggle away from you,
escaping your hands.
I turn, facing you, afraid. Afraid of the reaction, that your rebuke will be met with job related trouble?
I look out the walls,
hoping someone will stop in
to distract you from
me, but everyone walks by. This is well placed, as it is natural to try and avoid this discomfort.
I look toward the back.
The cashier helps customers
unload their wallets
on threads for the holidays.
'Midst the cotton and
flannel, money changes hands.
A lady strides by,
not seeing you stand by me.These two stanzakeep the timeline moving - keep the scene live. Nice work
Still too goddamn close-
I can trace the weaving of
your shrunken sweater.
Dare I ask what's caught your eye? Oh, wow - he's not looking you? Cripes, you already know he's attracted to you and hitting on you - is this a surprise from someone (I now believe to be a) distastefully inappropriate slimeball?
It's not the child
rollerskating out the door
or the kid's clueless
mother who seeks me out.
It's not the sweater-
kelly green with puffs on string-
dangling from my hand.
I search your face for answers.
Eyes not on my face-
they drift about my body.
Your head is bowed, and
I gaze upon onyx spikes.
Look up, you bastard!
I'm more than a pretty rack.
They're not for you to
fuss over while on the clock! Ok, you've noticed everything work related, and this putz is being a classless hormone factory, offering no respect to you as a person.
Don't you understand?
My breasts are for someone else.
Won't he be unnerved
to learn of your crude actions? It's none of his business anyway if you've chosen to rebuff the pass - or are you saying that if this "someone else" wasn't in the picture, things might be different? This ties also to the "on the clock" comment - as if that is the only time they are off limits?
With sweater in hand,
I move a little further
away so I can
get some work done around here.
You're still standing there,
and I still can't see your eyes.
They're fixed on the floor,
avoiding contact with me.
I set the sweater
on the table beside me,
lay it flat on shirts
piled up to my stomach.
As I fold the sleeves,
I see your head snap back up,
those matte orbs
muddling your intentions.
"No," I whisper, and
I move the sweater away.
I'll push you away
with one word: a rejection.
Those tears on your orbs
haunt me as you walk away
when I see I've made you run. I end this thinking there is more than is described going on. Was there some previous flirtation that was returned, maybe a previous relationship? Attractions ignored due to existing relationships? Whatever it is, what I've garnered from the words is not disillusionment, but rather a sympathetic rejection with undertones of mutual desire.
To conclude: This event reads one way, while saying it means something else. Is it intended to be a lie, is it intended to be a self-deception? Is it really a testimonial of the powerlessness of women in the workplace? Written by a less caustic personality I may find something different, but I do not believe the author would find herself as a weak/meek victim - and that adds to the ambiguity. And again, little in this text screams with emotive intensity, while adding such could define the message so well.
I appreciate this as a poem, as an expression, and as a sad reality for so many. I do think it needs clarity of message and more non-telling emotion.
Mark
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