Debt Collectors, Heartache and Camisoles

Again, empty bowl. Again, 

thirst.   This time, 

tornados over Missouri. 

 

And again, a city shatters.    

Now, I’m flood water at your door 

balancing fallen brick 

 

on the tip of my tongue.  Chin 

jacked up. I can’t stop 

looking up 

    

words for lost love.  

Black, red, bruised 

lip biting, frozen, dark 

 

chocolate.  Spattered 

coffee on yellow walls. Brown tears.  

The whole damn scene’s so soggy.    

 

For the life of me 

I can’t remember how to scatter 

showers, clear sky, save a lilac’s aroma 

 

from wilting.   So I slip 

silky garments under my blouse 

to appear smooth                           

 

I have a drawer full 

shear and see through.  

Half started, ripped up 

 

apology notes I owe you. Red 

rings round blue eyes.  We stare 

out the window.  Both smoke. 

 

You hook a leash to the neck 

of our limping old dog.   

Flies buzz by.  Branches quiver.  

 

Worms float dead in puddles. 

I bend first.  Again, 

we rake through rubble. 

Kathleen Tryon is a Clinical Social Worker and Writer living in Upstate NY. She is a graduate of the Syracuse Downtown Writers Center Pro Program in creative nonfiction and a regular attendant of their poetry workshops. Her work has been published in Sweet, Crab Creek Review, The Stone Canoe, decomP magazinE, and the Readers Write section of The Sun Magazine.

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