MORNING RAIN

 

I can’t see it fall behind the curtains like

an emotion I know. Just as I write this

it stalls and becomes the splash of morning.

Spluttering in the pool of loss, somewhere

below my window. It seems to move me

my family, this house to some far off

distant land where birds sing.

Parting the curtains I look to see.

The morning rain cling to the vacant

Plastic clothesline like dew upon

The hedgerows of spider webs.

 

 

 

GLOBULES

For Stephanie

 

I hid behind white taffeta silk

Lace,  bouquet’s of flowers

And a band of gold.

 

Smiling for the priest, my husband

The photographers, even my father,

The tears flowed.

 

They thought were tears of joy.

The globules of filth drip from

The recesses of my mind.

 

Ejaculating regression, flashbacks

Of disturbed memory. Why can’t

I cry, blame someone.

 

Hate him and not myself?

Knowing that it’s over doesn’t help.

My father rests in a soiled dark earth.

 

My husband is with another woman.

My children are off doing their own thing

And I’m left here alone with the snap shots

 

And a lump in my throat.