Poem

Standard

She sings through my mouth,
and my mouth is a brackish lake
teeming with the lust of the tropics.

Only this time, I’m catastrophic,
my tics have taken on
the token qualities of a smoking gun.

One day shouting over another’s hair.
It’s fulfilling to care. It’s a travesty,
but it’s the air breathed through light.

Not her fight, but mine, or
the spine of a snail. I am not my ailments,
nor are my ailments pride.

-r. miller

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s