Wordle #149


You undress my echoes

Membrane by maleficence.

A trial that does not subside

Even in proclamation of verdict.

My soul is angry

With yolk and tasteless margins,

Flaccid lungs without

A breath to pinch.

I scramble eggs to accommodate

A subversive palate

The alien yellow,

The deconstructed form,

The subdued fertility

Of our opposing variables.

I bring the rain,

A provincial mantra,

A stick that both

Strikes and steadies,

A test of aggregate wills.

I fill your mug with silence,

Thin-lipped songs

So shrill as to be subliminal.

Your high-arched foot peeps

From beneath its swaddling.

The cold of bones

Blown through with shivs.

Winter rests vacantly

On a singular course.

Do you love me more

When your stomach swells?

I chase you through November

The home-sick ghost

Inescapable at twilight

But absent by dawn.

I draw hearts around

Our convalescing names.

However, gracious

The prison it will not hold.

I love your thinness,

The blade-like quality

Of your passages

As you exit my entrances.

I can only detain

The inevitables’ so long

Before the cicatrix dries

And I must sever again.