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Caroline Guenther Poem
Maggots, maggots
oh lord, maggots
they’re crawling through the
cracks between the wood
and they’re
swimming through the mountains
of trash
in the white plastic bag that
we left on the deck
and they’re
writhing on the floor
before my feet
like
hostages at the mercy of
their keeper.
Maggots, maggots
oh lord, maggots
I’m running through the
house taking deep breaths
and I’m
tearing off my red dress
and my
fiance’s red jacket
(the cats are meowing)
and I’m
opening the door
to the bathroom
and
turning on the hot, hot water
of the shower.
Maggots, maggots
oh lord, maggots
I think I see them
crawling on my toes
and they’re
climbing up the shower
walls and
drowning in the drain water
pooling in the tub
and they’re
scooting up my legs
but wait, there are
no
maggots here, no maggots in the
shower, none.
But now what am I
to do with the
real ones?
Copyright © Caroline Guenther | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Caroline Guenther Poem
White windows of painted boards,
and an exterior of rust-red resistance.
What infinite hallways dwell behind your doors?
An army of cream-clad patients,
sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes,
these are the images that come to mind,
and I feel the tension of the smoldering gaze
of the building with rust-red resistance.
A hand with no strength within,
fingers white as cod, and I ask,
“to whom is it kin?”
the building with rust-red resistance.
Like walking without meaning,
in a nightmare of frustration,
the people of the rust-red house share
no sunlight with the rest of Creation.
They, behind white windows of painted boards,
are alone in their elation.
For even while the day unfolds,
the rust-red house is theirs alone, no invasion.
The rust-red house is theirs alone, no invasion.
Copyright © Caroline Guenther | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Caroline Guenther Poem
The corner of the blanket,
turned over and wrinkled,
picks at my mind like a
finger nail at the rind of an orange.
I could leave it, like so many other things,
but choose to fix it,
if only for lack of effort towards anything else.
Pills melt in my mouth,
candy to an eager child,
these treats they give me
salvation and frustration.
For although they settle me, settle me, settle me,
I know what they are trying to fix.
I feel as if there is a well within me
that harbors poems and tears and
pain.
Perhaps these pills will fill it in,
I cannot say.
I can only question what would lie
beneath the first layer of
blue, blue calm.
Copyright © Caroline Guenther | Year Posted 2011
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