By Scott Sundvall
Chasing shadows
in the darkness,
takes for granted
the movement of
photons. She bleeds
liqourice sticks.
As a kid she
danced with
little ponies.
Where was her
dinner date now?
Her pasta would get cold.
She was the reason
men loved torn dresses
She hated herself
for that. She won’t
drink white wine but
she’ll break your lips
with her glass. She won’t
break bread
over prayer or
forgiveness or any name
of a mother’s death-bed
gift. Her own
omen is this:
in the cage, under
the bed sheets
you will find
the scared lioness
A wall that wants
to crumble but won’t
let you pass. Even
if you say please,
feign to know the
password. A dusty whisper
screams when you turn around.
