Wordle 205

204Brenda Warren

The red door

Stands ajar

As if it were a novel

And the inhabitants


Without predecessor

Loiter listlessly

In my absence

Each wishing to exist

And I unable to deal

That life-giving breath.

There are no mail slots,

No windows dimmed or otherwise

Just closet after closet

Into which my personas

Are posthumously cast.

I twiddle my keys

But the grinning locks

Have their own teeth,

Their own defiance.

The three-pentacled star

That can no longer beget

Winks at me from behind

Billowing eyelashes

And one by one

All those sacred wishes

Rush out energetically

Like ovulating salmon.

I sit back to the wall

Singing to the sun’s fiery sister

Without pack or pact

I cannot repair

What has been lost.

I write as if the paper

Were gauze

And the ink ointment,

But I never heal.

Mediocrity is always astounding

For all my efforts

I still suffer the limitations

Of my craft,

Some days the words

Do not add up at all

Even though

I have delivered them

Ribboned in my blood.