Tonight's Poet Corner: That's My Closet, Brother

That's My Closet, Brother
by Belinda Roddie

The clock's whiskers have spun
like a whirlwind. I've nearly bitten
my fingers off from the tension.
You stand close enough to hear
my heartbeat. There is no alcohol
on your breath. Just skepticism,
the staunch, pungent aroma of incredulity.

In another hour, I will be off in my
time machine, praying that perhaps
the era I land in will treat me kinder. I
am trying to wash the blood out
of my cuticles. You do not understand
how much you have frightened me.

It's getting late - sleep awaits. The sting
will leave your veins soon. It will
be easier to drink the medicine I have
offered you when you have settled
your stomach a bit. It will dull
the sharpened peaks of your
mountainous teeth, behind which you
hid your stash of verbal venom like
questioning capsules of cyanide. But,

in the end, they are only words. Though
they are still honed enough
to cut my already short hair. Aimed
adequately enough to pierce
the rainbow lingering in my ribcage.

Sometimes, the puzzlement
is harder to digest than the hatred, but
eventually, the language of love
you cling to, outdated as it is,
will be become brittle, dead as Latin,
and remain only in the ashes of
institutional antiquity.