When he is home I am a lead statue
on a crash diet because these sharp shells
crack so easily and my toes inadvertently draw
clumsy crimson battle lines.
We live in glass boxes with wheels.
Mine is covered in fingerprints and he
has installed cordless mini-blinds in his.
He rolls over and smiles, asleep somewhere else.
I watch the sickle slice the ceiling
into hours, days, years and am reminded
of a cabin we made love in two
summers ago.
One day he will come home
and find me hanging neatly next to
the lingerie.
This one in particular speaks to me. It hits me right at my core. I love the use of glass boxes with fingerprints and blinds. It's exactly how it feels; I was just never able to put it into words. Ugly, unsettling...and beautifully written.
ReplyDeleteI remember, this one was always my favorite.
ReplyDeleteDid not expect the ending. Took me by surprise. But I guess it shouldn't have. You're a good writer, Jac. I'm glad you have kept writing...
ReplyDelete