Tag: writing

Hope

The afternoon latches and lunches

on my milky breasts.

My chest a shelf that weighty demons sit on.

Outside in the rocky yard Good Health and Old Age fight.

My eyesight is incredibly blue

and the world is incredibly pink,

so my life is biased toward purple.

I am as executable and cuddly as a queen.

The river is dry.

No baby boys float in baskets among the reeds.

My body floats off to sleep,

my mind sinks into self,

diving deeper and deeper to the mulberry core.

 

Inner Life

A brittle face,

Snowy eyes

Communicate carefully the

Minute details of the storm inside.

 

 

In the hall the elevator doors part,

And my tears gush out,

A salted homage to King.

 

My surface life is disturbed,

Alabaster marred by freckles and nodules and

Wednesdays.

 

My outer life is placid, perceivable, unpersonalized.

 

But inside this domestic box,

Lay the most anemic dreams,

Copulating,

Breeding hopeful runts.