By TheFeatheredSleepPosted on

You, unmaker of peace, wear your hat jauntily to the side

a dandy at appearances

i am incapable of wiping the smudge of regret

away in time, before

everyone sees my imbalance and points with

blunt, corrective finger—

there she is, she’s deranged with grief

surely torn mad

not yet. Maybe sometimes. In the damaged fur, just a bit…

this lingering thing called hurt

a purple tie around my neck and I hide my succulent scabs

behind silk blush, with the covet of a lover

and you? You are the abuser who with

toothpick, flicks detris from your life as

effortlessly as anyone without conscience knows

how to polish their shoes with another man’s shine

sometimes I want to cut your throat

with a very fine Japanese knife, I keep unused

in my emotional closet and other days I want

to use it on myself, such is the pendulate swing

and thumbless gait of grief, a sifting vignette of those in our photo albums

who smile, so convinced of a radiance. The other

day I thought of your determine, growing like wan poppy from souless sidewalk

thin feet, high hips, impossible secrets braided deep into tangled weft of your hair

eyes closed from me, turning in simmering amusement, some unheard world beyond blunder

like a tuning fork set high, your mavidad, a seekers entreaty, the

sea pearls of your hope sewn tight in seemingly empty pockets

if we drowned, you’d die rich and I’d float to gulp the waste of dreams

frothing there among the manifold immensity

it takes just one word, the swallow of truism and fakery, a broken pendant, emptied bequeathment, the ransack of joy

to master stoism and a stomach able to survive the pitch and vinegar of disappointment

in my head I hear your voice, its fine timber cresting Finnish land

and

I am the sot

gathered for wedding and funeral

spun into skin

held close and released

breathe me out

let me loose

where undertow has no purchase

to be weightless and the insubstantial

a feeling, a letter, washed clear of intent

just the impression remaining

something I left behind

in amber

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21 Replies to “In amber”

  1. This reads almost like the start of a novel that could be a bestseller, Candice . . .

    “and you? You are the abuser who with
    toothpick, flicks detris from your life as
    effortlessly as anyone without conscience knows
    how to polish their shoes with another man’s shine
    sometimes I want to cut your throat
    with a very fine Japanese knife, I keep unused
    in my emotional closet and other days I want
    to use it on myself, such is the pendulate swing”

    Such intense emotion and beautiful wordplay. It’s good to see your work when we see it.

  2. Indifferent abuse
    Not even quite
    Rejection
    Kept on a shelf
    For maybe more later
    Escape a cage invisible
    The bars of illusion
    Of the possibility
    Of caring
    Of recognition
    Of resurrection
    Of something that
    Was never real
    Amber containing
    Not even a dead insect
    Just its ghost
    Leave it and
    Let someone else
    Dare try to make a jewel of it

  4. ‘sometimes I want to cut your throat

    with a very fine Japanese knife, I keep unused

    in my emotional closet and other days I want

    to use it on myself, such is the pendulate swing’

    I had highlighted this before I read the above comment – such agonising pain

    I do hope this doesn’t end up in the trash

  17. I’m still collecting and have more backtracking to do. I sent some to you gmail. Since then, I’ve changed the “Inspired By” to a footnotes format that feels cleaner.

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