Charlotte Ozment, Summer 2017

Dirt Eating

The burden
of prayers and curses
flung at open-wide plains
come home to roost,
lacquered upon layers
they hang on me, bind me,
challenge and morph my
persona until I seethe
in my mortality.

I did not ask
for this role. No,
I never volunteered.
But the blood in my
veins was spun long
ago to accept, every
generation a chosen,
every progeny unfailing.

All that is left
to me is to harbor
every cry uttered
until my frame sifts
to dust, and my animus
returns again, enduring.

 

 

Following a thought through a wormhole

As I sat writing
letters one morning
a thought took me,
led me away from
my moment.

The farther I got
from that now
the more my anatomy
tried to follow.

I was stretched
between common
and rare, unable
to keep my eyes
on my pen.

Before I knew
of a reason why
not, my senses
split, and I recalled
my purposes,
simultaneous.

As hands took note
my heart took flight,
and the head took
advantage
of any view.

And I saw myself
in 2-D and 6,
one mundane, another
anything but singular,
sitting here
and elsewhere
extraordinarily
still in sync.

 

 

Period

I found you again,
hiding in amongst all your
periods and. . . .

Letters, tall and oh so proper,
a calm, intimate facade
that abruptly lets loose
like the slice of a knife
to jolt complacency’s drivel.

You were built of grey and white, child.
Soul lacking in your hasty construct,
a withered eye and censor tacking.
But we are not fools,
we know what you are.

Game always senses
the savage in their midst.
The snarling, gouged creature
barely held in check by
periods and. . . .

 

 

 

Charlotte Ozment lives on several acres in Texas. She finds words hidden in the world around her and can sometimes put them to paper before they fade. Her work has previously appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, Kleft Jaw, Star*Line, and Café Aphra.

 

 

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