By Tamara Olmedo
Pen covets the kiss of paper,
Only when the fickle moon is out.
The urge shouts a discordant song, it
won’t be denied. Pregnant with shame
of avoidance, guilt’s kiss
is full of bite.
I crawl to the page mired in resignation
to judgment and reprimand.
The milk white page,
the taunt of blue lines; but I
Am not new to torment,
we’ve done this dance before.
The white knuckled tension pulses through the pen;
the strangled hand of a lover
clutching packed bags and a battered photo.
I am foolish between infractions,
Audacious I melt into the chair, boneless
as if I know remorse.
You can’t lie, it reminds me
even my bullshit calls me by name.
Letters hit chipped,
cracked coarse salt on bare knees,
and I grit my teeth. A tornado
of words pour,
scratchy,
illegible and without audience.
I steel myself to split open,
a torrent of tranquility,
serenity, sanity,
ecstasy.
Only then do I surrender to slumber,
Bleeding free into the void.
