my gorgeous sanity

 

 

life had once been defined by linears and absolutes,

.                                                                                             those

oh

so

determined

swatches of        time .

 

stacked like   esteemed leaders

in golds and blues

 

once, i’d been able to

drag them to the

middle

of the living room,

fan them out like

beautiful tarot cards,

.                                        close my eyes,

choose some wonderful thing

at random.

 

then one morning the

sun

came

up

but everything           was

.                                        dull,

gray like rain,

still as death,

and i was                 barren.

 

i ran to the closet

.                                   in the hall

tore past

coats

board games

orange rain boots .

 

but they were already         gone

my gorgeous sanity

 

those delicate

patterns

of some life.

 

The Speakeasy #151 is open!

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The Marriage Bed

 

Don’t blame the sinner.

The pleas all catch in

her throat like

words, ashes

on the tips of their tongues,

all disappeared in

cupped mouths now,

in curious noise,

in sheets like

tangled ribbon.

 

She is

broken glass,

a vorticose tunnel

of sweet rhythms

and soft hands,

a queen of pawns.

Sinning is easy when

there is no focus

in her eyes.

 

Don’t hold the sinner when she

wears that black veil

like some golden crown,

like sanctity above

warm shoulders,

worn lips,

’cause while sweat still crawls down

spines

she is turning down the lights

in the marriage bed.

********

This is my response to this week’s Speakeasy over at Yeah Write. The prompt requires writers to include “Don’t blame the sinner” as the first line of a fiction or poetry piece of 750 words or less; writers must also make some sort of reference to the above painting. Hope you enjoyed my contribution!