deepundergroundpoetry.com

Other Bones

         
What is her name          
that one in your bed                    
                    
draped in familiarity                    
as I drag thoughts across linen          
as I picture a chicken carcass                    
forming shelters in the kitchen                    
where your children live.          
                      
Why does she not sing here              
of all the words you never speak,          
of her fingers and feet and face,          
her vacant stories beating.          
                      
I look at my own gold ring                    
a fundamental hinge                 
between my love and I            
wondering  
if she showered with yours,              
permitted it to dance naked                    
where nobody watched                    
                      
her ankles  
glowing against the aga,          
an iron mausoleum housing           
a sleek dagger of betrayal,          
that sorceress of mundanity                    
made fire in the streetlight.          
                      
Does she unravel her misery          
feeding charred skin to the dogs,                    
her dreams kicking hours                  
against your barren hearth,          
her hair a plaited rope                    
                      
how she howls inside
your graveyard heart          
           
such cold, absent        
stonework.
         
 
Written by Northern_Soul (-Missy-)
Published
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