by kvennarad

“True, I haven’t said I love you lately
..– some are struck blind, I mute and
..shipped away one night leaving only

..a hand and foot severed on the stoop
..of your monument; but the sentiment
..continues, you may say it endures as

..well; I pause to eat, reflect on the day
..being cold, before a spoon of breakfast
..I have a taste of your skin on my lips.”


Night’s slaughter, half the world dead
by gravity, stacked slaves, shelved to
raw dreams, wreckage, prone, prey; a
lone poet hunches, stealthing her lover
into verse, a desklamp sole against the
dark but nothing counters her madness;
she is fear of day, starting, reluctant to
the sun (such as it briefly is) who’ll no
more than squat till dark comes again.


Your mind’s a hoarder’s house – credit
that! – with only sidled ways angling the
junk; you curate; there is a sure order to

pattern the space and the fill, but to say
it is fraught, to isolate one hallmarked
item is a danger, the whole mnemonic;

the exterior gives no hint; tell us what is
cyan, what vermillion, what umber, what
ochre, momentary before they’re refaced.


©Marie Marshall