Sucked into the bellows,
the belly of the legends she’ll
never live up to. Where myth
is gospel, the lexicon
not yet decoded.
She broods awkwardly,
plods instinctively, waddles
over the swollen mass,
the drudgery and discomfort.
Ravenous hormones ripened by
inaction, sleeves dirty with
labor, agitated, effaced,
aptness unleashed with full fury.
Sweep up the dust-damaged dreams,
decades of deceitful reveries.
A dodgy reflection donates a dustpan, and
delivers sedatives to slow you down.
Panning for rivulets of gold, gaining
distances despite discouraging
weeds, disproving crayfish, and
invasive voices dialed in and planted.
Sieve shorn, wrinkled fingers peel
through the sand, redirect the algae,
dissect the muck with hunger and care,
a delicate undoing of deterrence.
I didn’t mean anything, just talking
circles and making inappropriate
comments, like always. That liquor
calls up coarse language and the shaming finger.
Hanging around in my kitchen, I’m always
mourning when you finish the leftovers.
You said you would never leave me
When you get home tonight you’ll say
that I took some words too deep. I’ll reply
that they weren’t supposed to have your address
At that moment I’ll be trying so hard
to leave it alone, reading over some old
conversation with someone better at this than you…
and maybe I’ll miss him a little, but this time
we should be fine.
Waiting is a horoscope
verging on the truth, and then heading into
obscurity. It’s the dryer tossing its load, one
hour at a time, the cat heaving
on the rug by the door.
fake hunger, the brush of the broom
against the grain of the wood.
It’s the glow of the television
through foggy glasses, the fish tank
humming a tribute for the neglected fish
Cadence to Arms over the whirl of the funeral.
It’s ice still on the doorstep, or a watched
pot refusing to boil, a thread pulled
pedantically through the same button
every week for months. It’s the pound of the
puck on the garage door, the refrigerator
clicking, and knuckles cracking.
Thinking of the one who said
I was a waste fuels my ambition
and the world blurs, seconds run
double time. I won’t listen to her
downhearted piano. I keep running
into the night and drinking up stars.
I hear the snores, such selfish, hasty
squander of the hours. I might never
outrun the clock, the time to burrow
out of this life continues to pass,
leaving behind a traffic-battered moon.
I stomp those foolish thoughts.
I don’t imagine for a second she isn’t
giddy to hear my winded joy dying.
Jamie Haddox is a hockey mom and writer from Minnesota. She holds a BA in Creative Writing from Metropolitan State University. Her work has appeared in “Gyroscope”, “Pretty Owl Poetry”, and Drunk Monkeys. In her spare time, Jamie loves engaging in witty banter, Cards Against Humanity, and reading lots of books.