Poetry From The Heart by Barbara Ann Smith

The Hush Is Carnage


Nights are long and the hush is carnage;
I pull covers tight against my chest,
make up riddles to drip sounds
coming from the bathroom faucet.  Turn
to the empty spot he'd left earlier,
burrow deep to trap the warmth
of his body, not knowing why I yearn
for his heat.  The sting of affection
burnt out long ago and an imaginary
barrier sleeps between us at night.
Words spoken are outbursts in nightmares,
nothing more.

There are no fights or affairs, we're
strangers, yes, strangers, sharing a bed.
I wake one morning to a mute and I was
never clever enough to break his silence.
There are no leg holds or foot play,
my body's icy from hugging chilly
sheets and dreading to sleep face to face
with a stranger.  Nights are hikes
through an arid region, no water and no logic
for being there.  I lie awake and wait
for the brilliance of the sun to warm my spirit--
kick myself for not leaving.


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The Hush Is Carnage

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