This room in my heart
finds its meager light

from a memory
wrung out
like a towel,

sometimes slate,
others times the sea,

from her steady eyes
to my side’s thorns.

I, roses,
leveled by her
unwitting vines—

there’s blood
all around.

But I am rooted
in the words
and the quiet.

A well-lit desk.
Full wolf moon.
Breath captured.

I can resolve to this.


© Mindy Goorchenko, 2018. All rights reserved.

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