The Gazelle and the Moody River

She had hair the color of Rye Whiskey and her eyes were moody rivers

fortified by storms. He was a gazelle in a clown suit with a tempest on his knee.

He bounded in, she rose up and together with all their baggage

they made three. Somehow somewhere sometime his love

became a mallet but she never learned to lay very still. She would poke

at him with splinters from the bottom of the bowl, and he would drink

her up, he would vomit her out, but he could never swallow her whole. The beatings

weren’t the main bother, it was the distance between

her and reality that cut the wires and gave her the scars. The sense that she

was both the island and the vortex, the focus of the pupil in

the iris of his scorn.

When she died he went to her funeral. Did he know

his love

had helped bend the coffin lid?

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019


About theminstrelscitadel

In search of courageous souls who aren't afraid to dig a little deeper and have a conversation about all manner of things. Rant, rave, debate, discuss... let's do it!
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