Thirty-four: Roast Lamb, Part One

It has been a while since my last post. I have had to bend the rules of my 365 project because the way of my life has been bent. Still, I fully intend to make up for lost time!

So, without further ado, my first poem since the accident. (Dramatic? Me?)

Part One

A waterfall of yellow fingers flicking against a bound up abdomen,
a prisoner of my own inspiration. Spitting heat, I cannot think, I beat
my empty womb like a drum, forgetting that life is in the curve of my wrist.
I am failing, a flailing flame twirling, a ballerina spinning in my  orange
tutu, and I think my palms are burning but I’m not sure because my eyes are
shut so tight that they will have be unscrewed. I don’t know now that, for
eleven days, every itch will be someone else’s scratch; such a sacrifice
for one scratch of the match on that first, fateful Saturday of February.

Unedited as usual.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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