Confinement can be comfortable.
I know, I wore it
for several years.   My chains
hung from me like the tail
of my self-throned
coronation robe when I hoisted myself
on self and made policy about it.
My divination crumbled in it’s cell;
started at my temples,
made my crown;
the veil that obscured
the trail of my widow’s march
following the scent and
stepping lightly down the roads
that my men roamed further apart
from each other to leave me
in pieces in rows in their
new lovers’ homes.
I was mired in sudden freeze,
then implosion,
then retraction of amends
and I came
full at them
to catch them,
hook in mouth like
hungry lure.


Freedom, like any other illusion,
is a cage. It is a cage
of smudged windows or
slowly cracking doors,
screened porches and you’re watching
the kids chase the wind into
the gulls at the shore,
brick walls with a hole in the
mortar and you’re peeking
through the cracks of your
latest lover’s absence,
or when settled
and mended and feeling
very tall,
broken glass all over
the unswept


You’re reaching
for your lover’s
laughter in
space instead of
tangled fury, and they are walking
forward, loosening
some harrowed




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