Amanda L. Auchter
Holding Cell
I extend my hand,
small and lined with
a traveling road,
crooked and jagged ,
painted with scars,
like life.
I hold men in the red
center of my palm,
enclosing them like
trapped beasts,
sinning parishoners
black and cracked
and jailed inmates
with each long
and narrow digit.
I carry personalities
in my pocket
and take each one out,
small doll, toy to kiss,
slipping into insanity,
shady and dark with hot fear
like nightmares plaguing
invalids before the last rites
First day, second life,
I stand before the
chosen one, the muse of
my being, eternal in silver
like rings.
I always abused yearning,
sweaty and sticky thoughts,
trembling like fingers dripping
with painfully cold ice cream
lapped up like hunger
and slid down parched throats
to become food for passion
and thought
like serpents hiding in colorful gardens,
dancing with naked mistresses,
which release face after face
into the air, claimed by stars,
picked by the smallness of my fingers,
like fresh fruit.
The Sudden Dance
The sudden dance of an empty child,
moonless and deafening
into open fields embraced with rain.
He storms,
vanishing through moments as a father,
a gentle sleep unfolding into early morning sun.
He goes to listen with weak need,
remembering golden springs,
the red sun that began to breathe
as it left behind an early chill,
a present, the inherited mark
that threw and stormed the earth.
Dark Revelations
Another one is complete,
a full circle of malice
and hopeful glances
that catches her off guard
in late night prayers
that eats her smiles
like madness
to where she finds
insistency in retreat from daylight
under blankets and dreams
that escalates into
invisible joy.
Her forgotten self and torn pieces
are swept up at sunrise,
the dust becoming one
under the carpet to hide
the dark revelations
found in death.