Fumble, fumble

Her    That fucker finally died, and left me
With all the memories of fumbling around
In the dank darkness of the cellar down
At the bottom of the stairs, second to last

Step always creaked, and my face streaked
When the tears would roll down and down.
Down and down, goddammit. Down went the gown
With hands pawing such places as the deer would

Pant for water, drinking even the dew from the blades,
Grasses in the meadow green, early morning mist
Settling over everything green, hidden bliss
Is what he must have felt as I pretended to be a doll.

Barbie always smiles after all, right? No fight.
No call in the dark for mommy’s paregoric. No cold
Rag for the fevered forehead, nothing so bold
Can be done. It is finished. And I am again – a girl.


About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s