(played out in a room)
If she just stepped outside the pitter pat
it might bring about some solace, but she can’t escape
his ogling, his crying not to trust the witch hunters.
Voodoo and blasphemy spew from his sniping nose
at her. The goose rescued her the first time, you see,
but today is just them – two frozen warriors.
It rains desert sands outside but the room is a deep and verdant jungle.
He puts heads in the squeeze-box and rips.
She spirals hard, finally waking to nightmares of black and a zipper,
casting ill illuminations of her slow return.
He wants her with her thump back, but what is it she wants?
The only progress made in this room is the two flashes of mourning,
wailing fat slugs of guilt and whispers. Both are defeated by silence,
stones of acceptance that life is an ordinary sampling of small collisions.
Post a Comment