Tag Archives: abuse

~because addiction is a bitch

i.
the sun has yet to reach the east. in this thin-skinned room of dark hours comes a gathering of static & hallucinations. too many coronas, too many blunts & a labyrinth of unlabeled, unprescribed brown bottles litter the floor. clockhands crawl the wall, pointing, as if to mock his unsleep. photos tremble, echo the missing voices of a summer, passed away. he buries the unraveling; ink on the page, ink on the skin. night is needling him. night is heavy with fireflies, heavy with owls.

ii.
behind the steel bars
appears the lonely June moon
again & again

iii.
this could be
the beginning
of a poem

the crumbling
of words
to creosote
& bone ash

a cauterization
of metaphors
before the spread

like tumors
like rumors

iv.
wild throats swallow
xanax with pez
wash down whiskey
with jagermeister
& cans of diet cocaine

he will stand at the altar
recite bible passages
to skeletons of
a former self
to angels
with glittered wings

v.
when a lost son rises
whole again, the wind
returns to the sky
lah 5.15.16 ©®

~approaching self-reproach

 

 

I wrote a letter and pretended to
send it

an attempt to personify the broken beat beneath
my rib bones
rationalize how the azaleas must wait while I
orchestrate this burn

draw back my breath
and scatter confessions to a graveyard

as if confetti could calm the air

don’t apologize for leaving

the sentence would only lie restless
in my palm
until fingers hinge and curl
and knuckles become a white tourniquet

only the discoloration will remain

 

©  lori hamilton

~gradually

 

 

i.

when I was little, I asked

“is heaven in the sky, daddy?”

he said heaven is a further calling

a purpose, a destiny

          that love is blue

          and blue is limitless

when he was called home, I remembered

          love is blue

          and blue is limitless

                    like grief

ii.

spring inevitably brings violence

in the same bruised sky

a drunk wind pivots frantically

          swings in my direction

anger conjures up another storm

that thunders through windows

          and walls

the smell of rum is the sound of touch

          crack of an open hand

iii.

october’s orchard is still

at dawn

a family of deer feast on leftover fruit

they pause as they notice me

settling into a quiet, cold fog with

          the beekeepers ghost

iv.

the metronome ticks away

at distant shadows

words pulse in her eyes

like stars traveling in their

own orbit of solitude

desperation borders

the autumn

of her once auburn hair

          but she is fierce

slaying dragons until the heat

becomes too much

and imagination stops racing

through her heart

v.

blind birds stumble

from a damp bed where

poetry grows

          starved for attention

          starved for scent

hands stir awake the grasshopper

who spits like a preacher from

the pulpit

I am the rose

swallowing clouds

          full of tears

as day casts a spell of yellow

I bud my petaled armor

          sharpen my fangs

©  lori hamilton