Aimee Nicole

Willow
 
Thousands of tears
flow soundlessly
from a duct.
Then a wind snags the heart,
rustle grumbles
inside out
and a shadow swallows my shadow.
Her tears
float on a pond.
Before they drown.
 
 
 
 

This is a poem
 
This is a poem
 
Not about the sunset
            which—maroon, dandelion, and black-eyed—
            sparkles on the tongue of Mount Hope Bay,
            tart with the passing of another day.
 
It is not about my lover passed,
            overcome by the gangrene.
            Limbs, blotched with midnight decay,
            fingers crackling, grasping a Jack and coke
 
This is not about him leaning over Finnegan's bar, sticky with rum and salt,
            while a dog walked up
            and gnawed off his crippled leg
            without warning.
No one noticed until the malodorous stench
            left the bar.
 
This is not a poem about books I've read,
            because her Twenty Fragments were not so Ravenous
            and he was not the Son of Jesus.
 
There are no sirens
            or odysseys.
 
There is a 6-pack in my lap,
            but the Guinness is warm
            and therefore unable to quench the lazy night.
            Mosquitoes crowd around a streetlight
            and riddle the black sky like stars.

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal