poetry

The Divorce.

arid clouds cloudy dark

The final chapter of our union
tells of bone deep chagrin—
the dumb utter of
‘I feel statements’
plays itself like a mantra,
useless invocations found
in the crumpled leaflets
from the therapist’s office.

The pointed questions
from our guilty mouths
forces a sober thought through;
we felt the cold walk in
but we never felt the warmth walk out.

The silent stare between us
measures the immeasurable,
a gulf of indifference grows-
it’s time to close dead eyes,
and move on from this grave.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

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poetry

Witch.

 

dark darkness loneliness mystery

Wherever I walk
one million fires
follow me.

[she is the butcher
and a weaver]

Whenever I talk
one million serpents
spill from me.

[she is the mother
and a deceiver]

My tongue is a dagger
and faithful servant,
delivering justice
to the soft throats
of holy men and traitors.

If you do not fear me
you do not fear the end,
if you cannot kill me
you cannot kill your shame.

[sacred is her wound,
for it redeems the light
with the blood of her womb.]

Nancy Botta ©2019

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