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  Nov 2015 Inqhawq
Denel Kessler
Each curl of conversation
stills my tongue, half-sentences
stranded in the mire
of biting reason

words silently form
protests, defenses
reasons and intentions

worthless to ears already fed
with the insistent conundrum
accompanying every attempt
at reconciliation.
Inqhawq Nov 2015
Wear me as a diamond ring
Share me as a failed pairing.

Born of ash,
I am a star filled memory
Around your finger,
you know I'm forever me

The geometry of 'we'
Still troubles me
Is it me and you
Or just you?

Am I just turns for the worse
Thoughts for you to stuff in your purse

I've got to face it,
I see your face in every facet
In your eyes I'm a mirror maze,
I hold you hypnotized and amazed

smoke and mirrors
While I go from
Smoke to mirrors

I'm just a bit of carbon.
Did you know you can have your ashes compressed into a diamond? This is about that, sort of.
  Aug 2015 Inqhawq
Anne Sexton
Put on a clean shirt
before you die, some Russian said.
Nothing with drool, please,
no egg spots, no blood,
no sweat, no *****.
You want me clean, God,
so I'll try to comply.

The hat I was married in,
will it do?
White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array.
It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug,
but is suits to die in something nostalgic.

And I'll take
my painting shirt
washed over and over of course
spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted.
God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens?
They hold the family laughter and the soup.

For a bra
(need we mention it?),
the padded black one that my lover demeaned
when I took it off.
He said, "Where'd it all go?"

And I'll take
the maternity skirt of my ninth month,
a window for the love-belly
that let each baby pop out like and apple,
the water breaking in the restaurant,
making a noisy house I'd like to die in.

For underpants I'll pick white cotton,
the briefs of my childhood,
for it was my mother's dictum
that nice girls wore only white cotton.
If my mother had lived to see it
she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office
for the black, the red, the blue I've worn.
Still, it would be perfectly fine with me
to die like a nice girl
smelling of Clorox and Duz.
Being sixteen-in-the-pants
I would die full of questions.
  Aug 2015 Inqhawq
feather of
             It dances
                                    on the
                       wisp of wind;
                 the draw
                                 of cracked
formed of
                                      withered apple skin
                                                         and stale coffee;
                                            of puckered
              and deep
                             Hunched shivering
                                                       shoulders hoist a
                                                                                            shaky hand
                                                                                          toward the
                                                A raspy exhale releases
                        another puff of smoky breath.
The icy air exaggerates
the capacity of old
and tiring lungs.

I foresee this rarely preempted fate.

I quit!
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