I was born in a house with an unlocked door,
had to teach myself
to turn the key at night
and then in the day
to keep the warnings on the other side
of this slate of wood,
varnished to look like an invitation.
For the Thursday Photo Prompt: Invitation
Placed you up,
out of reach,
where you could be loved
like an object.
Perfect.
Worshipped
your tears and howls,
as you begged
for freedom.
So I blamed you,
because it was easy,
sweeter on the tongue.
Didn’t have the bite
of admitting
I could have been wrong.
I’ve just been writing up three longish poems so I felt something short and sweet was in order tonight.
Instead of speaking
she breathes
across the skin of her coffee.
Whispers,
the words unwanted
to an empty chair across
and closes her eyes,
sips her drink,
when nothing is said
in return
and blots a last goodbye
on a napkin
from the counter.
She makes babies clothes for the sleeping children.
Started with her own, but just kept going…
That’s why she walks the fence line.
Knuckle bones pressed white against paper skin.
Twisting wool loose.
Gathering the lost.
Carol J Forrester 
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