Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Action Poetry

maypoles are for may.

our silks are used, now,
packed in cardboard boxes,
gathering dust until next year.

we'll spend our time crushing shells,
and trading tragedies
for late night ephiphanies
or jewel toned relief.

these curtains
have grown thin,
straight as heavy rain,
a spine taut with fear.
yet another thing i inherited
from my quiet mother.

there is no pain in silence,
but in the anxiety
and anticipation

we've got to pack it
with the silk
and make due
with cotton
and blisters.