[Image by Hilda Carline]
[This week’s poem was, in opposition to the general theme of this category, written pre-choice of music. Upon finding the collaborative “I’m Waiting Here” by David Lynch and Lykke Li, the piece took on a somewhat darker tone, which had only cursorily been touched upon before the song’s discovery. I hope you enjoy.]
The buns were stale now,
juicy little raisins and chewy orange
gone hard with time and neglect:
the general malaise of the house.
Spirits, however, are not so easily warmed
in the microwave when fancied.
Another pile of sweetened dough gone to waste
(though, indeed, her waist was no longer
bride-svelte: spread with bread and cakes,
just as he wanted). Adultery
was a mental possibility only, given
the mirror’s truth that spat its image
at her each and every morning, no matter
how she tried to glide by in shadow.
Prisoner by position;
unattractive by submission.
If only she could fly away
like the thieving crows to their crops.
He called her that: thief.
Said she’d stolen his life.
What ambition he’d ever had for more
she’d never known; always been comforted
by his lack of vision to distant horizons,
vastly unattainable for someone like him.
It was safe to wait,
painful to hope. She should
be grateful for so little.
The buns called to her from the kitchen.
What harm in a taste..?
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]