"with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk." -Anne Sexton, 45 Mercy Street
Horrid
an aria,
you know?
when that single song
keeps going inside.
it wrings through.
it wears out.
bleeds a little,
just for the pity of it.
violins, too.
rainstorm clichés.
you name it,
sadly,
tritely.
unbearably simple.
like being impaled,
by a steel pole
hanging in there
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Submission Name: Horrid
