The woman sits silently
on the edge of the bed
A thin shaft of afternoon sun
from a tear in faded curtains
slices the murky room,
landing on the man's damp body
half-covered with draggled sheets
She had completed her dressing.
Now slipping into her shoes,
She lights a cigarette;
exhales deeply,
the smoke rising lazily to the ceiling.
There is no conversation.
She eyes the money
wedged under the half-full glasses
plonked on the dusty dressing table
"See you next week," she says,
mechanically,
as she heads for the door,
collecting the notes.
It was not a question.
A BRIAN STRAND Vers Libre Poetry Contest placed 1st
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date wrote: 6th March 2022
I have replaced you, pitifully,
many times in rooms
within my soul.
Everywhere, there are
passageways curling
boxes of draggled vesture.
My spirit, like the
static of negligee,
gums and forms into
a faultless mount.
As it clings to me,
I set aflame with desire.
Close your eyes.
Let me blind you.
Assassinate me
until I bleed red
like holly berries.
Then, I will wear their
spiked leaves as a crown.
You can never reach
to enclose yourself
within the dying breath
my lungs hold.
I feel as though you
are abashed as if
the mind has been
carved available for eating?
Take what is seen as I
lie here naked and naive;
the last pig to carnage.
You have stolen everything.
Tonight, while you undress my history,
I mix my drink with stars
and toast to you.
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