Things – Renwick Berchild

This is what I’ve decided
to do with a dead woman’s things.

Threading
her clothing through openings, taking her books
and splaying them spine high like fallen birds.

Burning the chairs where she pretended
rusted weak hands never hardened me,
the kitchen orchids’ sorry minds
drooping wrinkled to the pane.

Ex mero motu, her fancy silver, I take outside
and stick them in the ground standing

like soldiers at attention, erect and wakeful
taking stock of their graves, as the late light
makes long and narrow their shadows.

Rip free her curtains,
let clatter her pearls, let the old grey tongue
leading to her stoop become overgrown.

Weeds rushing
with yellow windmills, bowing
hot summers like toads.

I cry with wicked thoughts,
palms black with dust.

for more from this author at ‘The Larkspur Home’ click here: https://larkspurhorne.net/

Published by grumpygorman

I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...

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