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

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

If you catch her at sunrise
with fistfuls of dirt
and sweat on her lips,
tell her;
the burden of planting seeds
will never be shared
by the men who plucked
all the midnight flowers
blooming in her bed.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

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