Agoraphobia

 

Chloroform and icing,

the children are fed from my

plump, right arm.

Pill bottles and mottled sheets.

Love the void, bottom of my

flaking stomach.

Water, water, water.
Water is rebirth

in this ice bath of indecision,

it tugs upon my veins from center-o’-palm.

Puffed up flesh and broken crucifixes,

and a long, drawn out phase of

asphyxiation of the wrist

all play their miserable tricks

under the patterned shifts of my

left framed mind.

Speckles of bad blood.

What’s not so pristine is bled,

bled as a half-desperate attempt

to please a heaven of intermittent

ignorance and a frozen will to

continue onward.

 ------------------------------------

Those eyes, fractured and crystalline

resembled nothing more than razor-blades.

Such a place, a hideaway for the sun to reflect

all the cremated hearts that’ve been

candied and jarred by aged, perfect widows

in discolored veils, the hues of which

matched closely to pale heather.

And in this floral, lavish

garden, ferns will replace

such a superfluity of loss.

A loss of sculpted garnet, wine-like fluid;

so fragile and delicately ideal.