Urban Legend

Standard

Eggshells patter on the window
yolk nails itself to the skillet
begs for your forgiveness.

This is the hour of your decay
slick yellow sunshine like a miscarriage
crowning a morning already hot

with what might have been
were it not for last night’s hacksaw moon
the man with the chipped nails

and whiskey tongue. He always finds you
when you run. Take off your shoes
leap with frog-grace, nails not making a sound

on the cracked sidewalk. That path is its
own cement, parading past clapboard and gardens
tripping all the girls trying to find the keys to home.

Was it you who muttered in a frosted panic
spit slipping from your young tongue (no whiskey
for you) This is all fiction. My house is made of candy.

There is a pair of red stockings in the footlocker
at the back of the garage. If you knew how to drive
you could pull the car out, slip your legs into the fire.

p

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This poem was written using the wordle prompt at Read Write Poem this week.  It was one of those poems that practically wrote itself.

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13 responses »

  1. “yolk nails itself to the skillet
    begs for your forgiveness.
    This is the hour of your decay
    slick yellow sunshine like a miscarriage
    crowning a morning already hot”

    Wow. Great images here.

  2. I agree on the brilliance of “hacksaw moon” and wish I had come up with such a wonderful, musical image. I also love how “slick yellow sunshine like a miscarriage” echoes a line in the previous stanza: “yolk nails itself to the skillet.”

  3. Crikey. And I thought your Halloween poems were scary.

    Excellent, Jill.

    were it not for last night’s hacksaw moon
    the man with the chipped nails

    and whiskey tongue. He always finds you
    when you run.

    All this taking place under the sign of the “hacksaw moon” is so, so perfect.

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