Golden afternoon.

she’s on her back
twitched and bent
staring at a stucco ceiling.

She hears
insects scream
and devour each other.

she wonders
when this awful boy
will stop.

© Nancy Botta, 2018


Atavistic violence.

dark dawn dusk evening

(Before it mattered-)

I was a midnight ghoul
casting prayers and hexes
leaving stains where I knelt
before an empty bed—

(But now-)

I smear lipstick
to find something holy
I paint the space
behind my eyes red
I bare atavistic teeth
and take a bite out of God—

(However later-)

I scream out filthy curses
I scream out malevolence
I scream out the names
of every motherfucker
that ever laid a finger on me.

© Nancy Botta, 2018


Suburban Aviary.

YogaFit at the gym,
she preens in the studio mirrors,
ruffling and smoothing her hair back
before she swoops into swan pose.

She pecks at the granola
and blankly stares out
the floor to ceiling windows
in her open concept kitchen.

An errant feather
from the duvet
floats past an empty wine bottle.

She sharpens
her fingernails into talons
before her husband
can belch and lumber
his way into bed.

The owl calls,
and everything in her body
is screeching for flight.

©Nancy Botta, 2018


Too late, all gone.

architecture balcony black and white black and white

So there I was
guts out, making a scene,
hanging off the balcony
waiting to leave.

I knew I’d been low
for far too long,
I peeled off my face
and said it’s all wrong.

I tried telling you
I lost the plot again,
now I slow dance to death
with eyes wide open.

© Nancy Botta, 2018


Ambiguities. (a collection of vignettes)

camper camping campsite caravan

My eyes stalk headlights
glancing through curtains,
I pluck my eyebrows
until they bleed,
I finger fuck my phone
into the small hours of night
and stare down his body
supine, vulnerable, fast asleep.

He’s pale like a fish
abandoned by the river,
and I do not know what to do
with those brown eyes
asking, always asking me,
what have we done to each other?

After the final thud
I had to remind myself
only the birds will know—
the soil will soak up the blood
worms will take the rest,
I’ll wash my hands in the river
and burn any thought of him
to the ground.

© Nancy Botta, 2018