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

Standard
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

Standard
poetry

A weak voice is a symptom of heart failure.

abstract abstract expressionism abstract painting acrylic

I tried to say
important things
like ‘I love you’
and ‘I’m sorry’
but they came out
wet
crooked
aborted—
and I just let it happen,
let them splatter
like droplets,
like shattered teeth
spat in the sink.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

Standard
poetry

A Banal Sort of Betrayal.

The mid century outdoor sconce
I helped your wife install last summer
illuminates;
your slightly receding hairline,
5 day old stubble,
sweat stains on a blouse,
the glint of a best friend
charm on my wrist—
your forehead slick with guilt
when my arms, encircling your neck,
remind you
that we never truly cared
about all the lines we’ve crossed.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

Standard
poetry

Bouquet.

pink flowers photograph

 

She powders the clematis
blooming around her neck,
and dabs at red posies
planted on fat lips,
she paints her skin fresh
like the calla lilies he sent her,
to make up for flower pots
smashed on her doorstep.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

Standard
poetry

Atone.

blue and cream abstract painting

Sitting on a bed
squinting at the sun
I peel skin from my lips
slick with guilt and spit.

A self inflicted
crushed velvet wound
drizzles down and stains
my lap with an ellipsis.

It’s hard to show up
stuttering apologies
and muttering mea culpas
past bitten fingertips.

But it’s time to rise
and spit blood in the sink,
it’s time to eat the pain
and swallow my bullshit.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

Standard
poetry

An Unfortunate Bachelorette Party.

adult alcohol bar bartender

Oh my God calm down
no need to make a scene,
your hair is crazy
and the wailing is obscene.

Buck up buttercup
we ain’t got time for that,
dry off those cheeks
and re-adjust your cock hat.

[tick tock tick tock
you drag on and on,
leaking cheap mascara
after my buzz is long gone.]

Get a grip Rachel
being alone is not so bad,
at least you’re not marrying
a coke head older than your dad.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

Standard