Carmen Rabil-Eichman

Ash Sputter

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 Camel Saloon.