She Of Everyday Sunday

[to the reader: This poem is an attempt to fulfill a poetry assignment to write a poem of violence in a non-violent vocabulary of quiet or tenderness.]

He keeps her keeps away impurity
containment the only scheme sealed
and snug enough to force fidelity
every sunday he takes her pleasure
like a fatty mouth and handful
from a fowl only he harvests.

She the she long freed of honor
closes and opens wings and arms
calm of sober rawing memory
reclusive in a friendly corner
lit in a night-circling sonority
and naught else unexpecting

drunk on wishing into shivers
sparks darkly appear in bunches
soliloquy of solitary trance
gentleness of still respite
soft approaching somnolence which
will not arrive until until

unseen trees may be stood under
unfelt breezes in them seen
with eyes more willingly opening
than she the she of here is when
the door slides and breath creeps
a mist comes up of kiss and touch

equally cursed and blessed she
pulls back back into her walnut
shell of unimaginative rest
like sunday chicken roosts no wonder
in its heart no sweet resistence
to tired and sleepless captivity.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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