The Closet

wrinkledice.jpg

She smiles,

a slow, careful smile

that curdles on top like bad milk,

a skin freezing in increments over troubled

waters.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says

to the accompaniment of the skeletons doing a jig in her coat closet.

Their White Elephant

Silence sits upon silence,

a mute accumulation;

minutes,

days,

months,

years,

a hush pervades them all.

He won’t acknowledge

the white elephant in the room,

so neither will she;

the stillness deafens,

the lulls clamour,

all resound

with secret censorship

that wails without sound in her heart,

pounds and crackles in his brain.

He looks at her with a nameless longing,

she cries noiselessly into midnight pillows –

but still, the stillness snags,

expanding the girth

of their

white elephant.

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For more on this topic, visit Growing With God in My Garden