Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Mildred Pierce

At this time of night
everything falls into its place.
The lamp rests between the dead body and its arm
carving a shadow mask.
The gift is dropped into the trash can
the glass breaks on the floor
replacing the lingering word.
The lovers exchange their cliches-
the sound of the needle when the record is over.
I know, I know, I should have been a boy.
It's just some lipstick, mother.
Mother traveled -but not far enough.
What great hopes we had, she said
while reaching for a gun.
It seems to me if you're buying anything
it should be the best.
Please let's not talk about it:
He didn't love you.
It was me all along.

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