Dig Deeper
A marriage is like this:
The first year, peel off the skin.
The next year, dig deeper.
remove the bones
one by one.
Brush them off thoroughly.
Stick the small ones
in your bra.
Throw the rest
to the dogs.
The third year, yank the heart out,
feel it warm, feel it
pulsate in your hand.
Put it in a glass jar
and show your friends.
Prove that he’s heartless.
If he still loves you
the next year, dig deeper.
Pull out each nerve
one by one.
When you pluck
the final one,
call this archeology
of the last nerve.
Don’t be too proud of the job.
Don’t brag to your friends.
He’s been doing
the same thing to you.
Of Course
Of course I believe everything you tell me.
Of course my parents never lied
about Santa. Or sex.
Of course love never peeled off my skin
and turned me inside out.
Of course no one will notice if I wear
my clothes backwards.
Of course no one will laugh if I
slip in the mud.
Of course the doctor told me that
I would live forever,
and not to worry about that lump.
What a Shame
I saved shame as pebbles.
I hide them in my shoes.
Tiny, but irritating.
I saved shame as arrowheads.
I hide them in my shoulder hunch.
Otherwise, they pierce.
I saved shame as daggers.
I hide them in my tongue.
Talking is deadly.
The Darkness
The darkness follows me home. The darkness makes peanut brittle in my microwave. The darkness makes a nest in my hair. The darkness weeds my garden. The darkness sits next to me at the bar, drinking wine. The darkness is the wine.
Nolcha (@NolchaF) has written all her life, starting with poop and crayons on the walls. That led to a long career in technical writing. She retired into creative writing. Her poems have been published in WyoPoets News, Duck Head Journal, Ancient Paths, and The Red Lemon Review.