We were having dinner together
            the three of us
It was silent
except for the clicking
            of our forks on our plates
and dark
except for the dim orange glow
            of five little candles on the table
I should have known
            because there was
something deafening about the silence
something blinding about the dark

My father's fork stopped clicking
and he looked up at me
there was
            something crazy in his eyes
his irises turned to ashes
            and fell like snow
            from his darkened face
and he stood slowly
my mother and I with him
            as if drawn up by a magnet

She said his name
            slowly
            careful not to break the delicate silence
but he yelled hers
            his eyes flaming now
            shattering the silence
                        like the brittle glass it was
and he hurled the shards at her
            a thousand at her heart
She
        f
           e
               l
                  l
            with a dull
            eerie
            thud.
Something screamed
            and told me
            to keep the silence
so I stood petrified and said
nothing

But it was already broken
He threw a thousand more
            and added a thousand
            tongues of fire from his eyes
at me
And I fell too
            next to her
I gripped her ****** hand
            as we died together

            killed
                        by the shards

            of broken

silence.

I like the days when
I wake up at noon
            and crawl slowly
            from messy sheets
            to greet with blurry eyes
            the lazy afternoon sun
and eat breakfast
over the sink
at two PM

I make my tea
            lemon ginger
            with honey to calm the steam
and carry it upstairs
I sit at my desk
            in my pajamas
            half my face covered
            by my frizzy bedhead hair
and
squinting out my window
into the pink and periwinkle sunset
I pick up my pen
            with soft cold fingers
and scrawl onto a napkin
from yesterday's dinner
my poetry
in ink
the color of
            anxious afternoon sun
            steam from lemon ginger tea
            brown of unkempt hair
            and the
pink
and periwinkle

sunset.

here is a cup of fog
mix it well
with melancholy
spoon in a bit
of saccharine ---
indigestible sentiment ---
and blend it all
together

take this tablespoon of
creative fire
douse it with
unrelenting tears
repress it into a ball
then let it stand,
covered,
that the yeast of
sorrow may bloom

when doubled,
punch it down to
bloom again

punch
bloom
punch
bloom

work the dough of Life
to death
form it into a blob
put it into the cold fire of the ego’s
oven
leave it there to burn away
to nothing edible

serve it in hard chunks
on delicate china
and --- wait
trust that the teaspoon of
Love added at the last minute
will be enough


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

I am the quiet poet
I draw my silk from
            the writhing aurora borealis
                        in the frozen sky
            and twist its ethereal light into dripping ink
            still wet on the page
You think you know me?
            you don't know me.

I am the serene night sky
                        and the boiling hot stars
I am the tempestuous seas
                        and the playful shallow shores
I am the relentless scorching desert
            and the soft smooth tides of sand

I was a prodigy, a freak
            I came into this world
with a pen in my pudgy little fingers
and a notebook clutched to my chest
I watch
as diamond rings fall like rain
onto the fourth fingers of my peers
            imprisoning them
but my female ancestors slew dragons
            I am free
            I will always be free
                        no man can handle me anyway

I am a captivated student
            of the authors and poets before me
books are my haven, my lovers, my dreams, my life
I am not human
Arms open, eyes shut, head to the sky
            I am but a channel
for the flow of the universe.

thin, shaky pink finger
           points downward
solemnly accusing
            the vivid violet
            and brilliant tangerine ocean
                        boiling beneath
of the ****** ******
            of the sky