Shaken in the silence,
Shoved in the absence,
A hollow bird flies in.
He kisses her lips,
Whatever shall she do?
A taste of black honey.
The skin crawls across the floor.
A room with a stolen cradle,
An embrace of dust.
Candles screaming in the shadows.
Black is now a shade of blue.
The bird is on her shoulder.
Singing songs that sound like nothing.
The moon is absent from her duties.
He wonders what to do.
Fire breaks the grey.
Red beats back the black.
He is sitting in the corner.
Only pretending to read.
Feathered clouds about the room.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Michael DeNicola and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.