A Stitch In Time
by, 07-01-2010 at 11:28 AM (1264 Views)
A Stitch in Time
The Yew tree grows old,
and sparrows fly. I have nothing
left to feed them.
Silence ruins an appetite
for wedded destruction.
Pried apart by useless strains
of violating echoes, I mad dog leap
at the chance to
strip off my marriage dress,
tearing at the buttons, chewing apart
the seams sewn by infinite silver needles
tattooing lines in my life.
The coats we stitched for our dynasty
no longer hold out the cold.
You are gone.
I am lost.
My womb that once fried eggs on lazy
Sunday afternoons is empty.
My heart is freezer burned to a pulp
and yet you close around it, a
short order cook running low on the
Wednesday night special.
My hands are iceboxes,
blue veined Kelvinators,
Some two fisted drunk cyclops
bashes at the ice until it falls away
and melts on my stove top.
I do not think to clean it up,
only that it will dry there.
My soul meanders through
leftover memories stopping
to dine on familial violence.
Even the bloody roast sitting
astride the silver platter
tries to crawl back inside
the sheltering cow.
Whiskey hearts tick in the back bedroom
where the digital read out glows red
like a neon sign above a cheap motel.
All is not lost save my breathless sighs
that force a thirty second ending
to every Saturday night.
I eat your hostile sleep, fetal position,
avoiding the wet stain of fertility.
I say grace.
Nothing grows here anymore.
Published November, 1999
copyright Syyd Raven