strange poetry

Winter, A Witch, A Window

I write somewhere between 150 and 200 poems a year. Most of them are terrible, while maybe 2 or 3 are actually publishable. Between these two extremes are poems that I usually post here on the blog–they’re a little strange, a little silly, and have a sparkle I can’t explain. This is one of those–a melange of the strange and silly.

Enjoy!

 

She watches with cat’s eyes

the blood tacky on the yuccas, the snow

from the sun setting over the foothills

 

She fingers the windowsill latch

painted shut single pane

and pine frame

which she could open

with word and a twitch

of her nose

 

She runs her tongue

past teeth tanned

mummy-wrap off-white

by cups of black tea–

she drinks it now

the cup rests upon the sill

amidst dust and beside

a desiccated winter fly–

strokes the ridged

not-yet-ready-to-flake

skin of chapped lips

and would smile

but for the lack of

chapstick, lipstick, salve

 

Her breath catches in her chest

a mouse snapped in a trap

as he passes on the path

below her window

behind her house

in the sunset’s blood

until only sneaker-soled

diamond prints

twinkle in the snow and dust

and the kettle shrieks

tearing its hair out for the attention

she saves for him.