the smell of my desperation has become a stench

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the smell of my desperation has become a stench

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Up by Silver Fork

At the trailhead

On Antelope Island

From the other side

Cecret Lake

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Ten years of metaphor Dropped to the floor In one

Ten years of metaphor
Dropped to the floor
In one snip

That’s it
That’s the poem

You thought I’d spin words
Of a spiritual totem
With meanings blurred
The trope of a freed bird thrown in
The moment your patience grows thin

A stanza or two about a guru who sold me essential oils
But I fooled you
Unless you’re among the true
Unless you’re loyal to this lore

You skipped past this waste of text that intersects
With a silver edge so sharp
It slit my wounds and scars, the heaps of mangled barbs
From the junkyard of my pain

I didn’t wince when I heard the thud that formed a mound of glossy silk beneath me
The milk I’d managed to forge out of mud
The pearls I’d dredged from a cold, black sea

Seven days free of the lie of Samson’s strength
The ransom paid in five-inch lengths
Of a lion’s mane
Grown by a queen

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