Poesy #13

The sky darkens and undarkens;
clouds gather and then ungather.
Thick rain chatters on the roof
and the pavement and the trees;
thunder barks and sings.

I am an unkind passenger,
sharp-tongued with too many demands.
You unfold your hands
full of your best damn effort.
How is it that I bite back,
flashing my teeth like latticed bolts
unwinding in the storm?

I store regret in my bones,
apologies in my marrow.
I wear the ache of shame close,
built beneath my skin
like my body’s own framework.
I draw it out, cold like a needle —
I’ve done it again.

The road is thick with water.
I twist my skeleton out for you
one more time,
maybe I’ll mean it this one.
My patient saint,
you turn me right-side-in
and carry my shame with love.


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