poetry

To give.

I strip off what’s left
just as you asked;

see here are my bones,
they rattle and clang
like teeth in a sink.

Whatever drips
is a mess on the floor;

see here is some hair,
wet and mashed
pulled from my throat.

I’m sorry for the stains
it’s all darker than I thought;

see here are my eyes,
punctured cornea
dribbling ink blots and salt.

It’s all gone
just cavities and echoes;

see here is where I end,
a vanishing fog
wishing you’d tell me to stop.

© Nancy Botta, 2020

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10 thoughts on “To give.

  1. To Receive

    Despicable man might I be,
    to strip bark from your tree;

    Or yet worse,
    ask this of you
    so flippantly.

    Bones, there I see
    as vermilion tunnels
    your pillared ivory;

    porcelain beneath,
    oozed in fleshy streaks.

    Though hair and gore
    litters your floor,
    why apologize?

    Stains fade in time
    wherever brightest lights shine.

    And stood witness to cornea punctured
    long lost to past luster,
    I curse the pen which marked
    heart’s scrawling ache, applied sweeter
    to a tear-scorched canvas: drier, flatter.

    Where are you,
    when heard you say:
    you’re gone?

    What is this hollow,
    from whence bellows
    cavities and echoes?

    Because, when I said to strip,
    what I meant to find
    lie not within body
    but inside your mind.

    Like

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