poetry

Lavender sachets.

white petaled flowers

One night
she came home alone
and slumped into
a dozen throw pillows
clustered like fungi
on her floral couch—

face down in polyester,
everything smelled like
musty lavender,
wilted bra straps,
and the wandering musk
of a man gone astray.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

Standard
poetry

Washing the dishes.

 

black and white blur cigar cigarette

A soapy ceramic serving dish
struck the low corner of the wall;

she never liked Toile curtains,
she never liked the look
her father-in-law gave her,
she never liked her blonde dye job,
or the way her husband wants her
to just lay there—

the shards were swept up
after two bitter cigarettes,
and a bit of pillow screaming.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

Standard