My teeth grind against unholy beams
creating portals for my pain, polished red pupils,
from significants of past, present.
I nourished them, touched wine skins
filled with Hail Maryís against their lips,
mirrored souls in my reflection.
But the glass cracks,
their vessels now void that Iíve polished with blood,
now tossed, their disregard and guilt
upon the wooden floor
of my conscience,
filled their egos with the incense of my sorrow.
I shock them now; they are used to my Catholic yielding,
praying easily, their easy prey.
I raise my cross, smash it against their faint images,
topple that table, silence its glass filled mistakes,
shut their chirping throats.
They gasp, locusts, smacking for air.
I cough up their lies, spit them back,
relax at my table now,
eyes fixed above
not below on those hims,
their pages of lyrics mere series
of silvery waste.
Sunlight slips easily
through my stained glass existence
as I sip on my coffee,
my lover nearby.
I watch their lamps darken, sputter then choke,
fall to the floor, spirits blackened and broke.
Copyright © 2010 Carmen Rabil-Eichman
|Author of novel,
When the Ugly Comes, Carmen Eichman is an
Associate Professor of English and poet living in
North Carolina. Eichmanís poetry has appeared in
A Little Poetry, All Things Girl (UK), The
Argotist Online, Subtle Tea, Invisible Ink, The Dan
River Review, Borderline, Thick with Conviction,
Ink, Sweat, and Tears (UK), Contemporary
American Voices, Astropoetica, Literary House, and