Black

You fell from my bed like old
yellowed dog teeth rolling across

the floor, footsteps rattling down
the side hall after hours of plying

the husk of my body, grasping hands full
of muscle and tissue with careless intent.

You slammed the back door as
you left, rattling the fragile old glass

in the transom, phantom shards
shattering my perspective, the shadows

in your vacant eyes blacker
than asphalt at midnight.

Compartments

You once told me you were good
at compartmentalizing.

Is that what you’ve
done?
Put me in a
compartment,
slammed and bolted
the door?

I’m curious,
what’s the nameplate on
my door?

Fucked up?
Expected Too Much?
Not Worth It?

I have compartments too
and one is yours,
problem is I haven’t
bolted it yet – but I will.

Your nameplate will say
Authorized Persons Only

to remind myself that
I am not.

Nepotism

You breathe fire for the audience,
a bravado thin as vellum.
Behind your fingers a tongue waits
it’s turn for celebrity asses and all
gather round to roll the black ball.

—————————————————————————————–

Charlotte Hamrick lives in New Orleans where she doesn’t eat gumbo everyday and doesn’t ever say “chère”. Her work has been published in numerous online and print journals, most recently including Mad Swirl, Connotation Press, Literary Orphans, and Moving Poems. She was a finalist for the 15th Glass Woman Prize and is a Pushcart nominee. Her original writing can be found on her website, Zouxzoux.wordpress.com.