it is a woman of murderous weapon
by which language commits suicide.
full of spongy yellow funeral cake,
mourning blankets and mattresses--
not quite comfortable, but something else altogether.
without use, we become frail;
withering on stems: little flakes of our past selves
crunching underfoot,
grinding into almost-nothing
but a squishy smooch.
(this poem was inspired by "The Yellow Wallpaper." Click here to read my post about it.)
by which language commits suicide.
full of spongy yellow funeral cake,
mourning blankets and mattresses--
not quite comfortable, but something else altogether.
without use, we become frail;
withering on stems: little flakes of our past selves
crunching underfoot,
grinding into almost-nothing
but a squishy smooch.
(this poem was inspired by "The Yellow Wallpaper." Click here to read my post about it.)