Joanna is in the kitchen
pining over a man-- her eyes burning
the kitchen floor. Walks the edge of
walls, explores corners hidden in
shadows; a naked space, ornery,
bleached in florescent light. Chrome
pots hang-- mocks her reflection: Dark
encircled eyes, long frayed yarn of hair,
and ring finger, bare, like skin untouched
or vibration of echoes: Empty.
She thinks of him: Leaving with her soul
under a charcoal sky, in deadened wind--
the way a house burns in the country.
She keeps a spare key in the secret
spot, incase he returns: The spot on
the porch where he took off his wet
boots, the spot where he put them on.
A contest entry
- I Don't Move On by Dead Hair.
575 points, ended July 19, 17 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Come on be blunt! I'm not sensitive, so if something sucks or needs to be changed, let me know.
Comments
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this is sooo good i like the image you make me see. wow! i just dont see 1 thing, i lov the whole thing
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aww thanks a lot for checking it out
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A very original piece. You have written this in a way no other entry in my contest has been written. Congrats!
The line breaks are very effective and add to your poem's mood. Well done!
"The spot on
the porch where he took off his wet
boots, the spot where he put them on."
A fitting end.
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