A Stitch in Time The Yew tree grows old, and sparrows fly. I have nothing left to feed them. Silence ruins an appetite for wedded destruction. Pried apart by useless strains of violating echoes, I mad dog leap at the chance to strip off my marriage dress, tearing at the buttons, chewing apart the seams sewn by infinite silver needles tattooing lines in my life. The coats we stitched for our dynasty no longer hold out the cold. You are gone. I am lost. My womb that once fried eggs on lazy Sunday afternoons is empty. My heart is freezer burned to a pulp and yet you close around it like a short order cook running low on the Wednesday night special. My hands are like iceboxes, blue veined Kelvinators, empty. Some two fisted drunk cyclops bashes at the ice until it falls away and melts on my stove top. I do not think to clean it up, only that it will dry there. My soul meanders through leftover memories stopping to dine on familial violence. Even the bloody roast sitting astride the silver platter tries to crawl back inside the sheltering cow. Whiskey hearts tick in the back bedroom where the digital read out glows red like a neon sign above a cheap motel. All is not lost save my breathless sighs that force a thirty second ending to every Saturday night. I eat your hostile sleep, fetal position, avoiding the wet stain of fertility. I say grace. Nothing grows here anymore.
Syyd Raven's Questions:
1. Is the pain of broken marriage evident?
2. Is the writer fruitful in describing violence?
3. Can you sense the finality?