BEVERLY M. COLLINS Back Bite
Hidden tension chokes
curls long tail through open
air like smoke. Regret has
its way, steams every windows.
Shame breaths like a thin
musty substance folded, neat
as the napkins, between us.
We cut the cord to understanding.
Its green sprout left to dry, given
no water that is listening or hearing.
Your eyes-shifting pools of
weighty silence.
This clumsy dance on tears is like
fangs on the neck of the flame. Love
banged in the brow again on our watch.
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