Tonight's Poet Corner: Bed Death
Bed Death
by Belinda Roddie
the dial tone
of your idioms, factory-pressed
and cooked into commodities.
You attempted to breathe ecstasy
where there was none to begin with. No
kick, no habit-inducing spree of intellect. You
offered little to nothing in terms of value.
Beads break eventually, and the string
that holds it all together separates into a
bristled tail, and not even animals can wear
the jewelry without feeling embarrassed.
You held worth
in second thought sentences,
when the meaning was half diminished,
half pulverized,
in the mid-chew of lingual gristle.
You couldn't tell me how you
really felt because you felt nothing.
You liked to use
big words so you could be a
big lover, and the flavor was lost
when the marrow was buried under
pearl-white lipids. The stuff I used for
wax on temporary candles that lit our
path to the bed only so many times
before the spit tired out the wick.
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