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sandra wyllie Oct 2023
on my arm stand
like soldiers in ten rows,
like wheat fields
as the wind whips through

and blows.
He made the hair
on my head curl
like a plate of green fiddleheads,

like the colored spools  
of grandma's threads.
He made the hair
on the edge of my eyelids flutter

like butterflies in a garden,
like an actress that starred in
a musical play.
But his feet were made of clay.
sandra wyllie Oct 2023
a flying magnolia aircraft that didn't
think I'd crash into his window,
hitting it with a thud. Face squashed
against the pane. I'm stunned. The life

in me drained. Quashed by a
reflection. Cast by the abjection.
Breaking my neck, gasping for my last
breath. Bleeding inside myself. Wings

folded like an accordion as I headed for
the white and green Victorian. I saw crimson,
orange leaves, watercolors on the trees. Scene
wafting like apple pie, a tie-dye of smells

and colors. Cherry wine in giant
mullers. Thought I'd pass as the wind
through my feathers. I weathered hits
before. But not with a centaur!
sandra wyllie Oct 2023
chair, molding around the contours
my body. I sink into him as
the beans swim like a school
of fish sticking together. Making

an impression of my derriere
as I melt like butter into the four foot
cloud of cornflower suede. All set out
and laid like a quilt. Cozy and snug

like a warm glass of milk. And rain
can pitter patter on my window. It doesn’t
matter the darkness of the sky, when I’m
safe inside and dry. As the hands on

the clock fly my eyes grow
heavy. Nothing can keep the sleepers out,
not even a levee! The smell of Christmas
pine stands next to my glass of wine.
sandra wyllie Sep 2023
memory in his handkerchief
tucked in his left breast pocket. In childbirth,
wiping sweat from her brow. Yellowed by her
cigarette. It's balled in wrinkles now. Dabbing

her tears with paisley cotton.  Once white
as the roses she carried the day
they married. She'd blot her crimson
lipstick lips before she planted

him a kiss. Her spilled perfume on
the dresser. The years had not made
his pain lesser. He'd waved the handkerchief
like a kite in the air, as she waltzed

down the stair. Now the square piece of
cloth has holes from the moths. But he
cannot wash it. He wore it along side
his lapel as they rang the wedding bells.
sandra wyllie Sep 2023
of musical chairs. Walking in circles
to the beat of the phonograph
as you paint on a smile and roll
out the laugh. But the music

stops. And you haven’t found
a sweet spot. So, the next time
the needle drops into the groove
you are removed, like an object

in photoshop. He crops you
out of the picture. You hang back
and see all these girls chasing
a seat. You used to be one of

them. He used to call you his gem. But now
he has more than he can hold. Now that
it's late and he's growing old. His circle
is smaller. Now the girls he's keeping

wear tight collars. He conducts pitch
and sound. Raising them to the sky
like Moses. Plucking them like roses,
till their toes curl. Who'll be the last girl?
sandra wyllie Sep 2023
shaking the ground, pitching
his sound just like a tenor. He's making
me wheeze. My lungs are whistling
like a kettle. And of yet, they have

not settled. He's a disease. My liver,
foie gras, black as char, a smoking
cigar. A blocked artery. A growing
malignant tumor spreading around like

a high school rumor. An all-over body rash
with mountainous boils, popping
and making a splash. He’s head lice,
clawing my long golden hair. *******

the blood up there. Here's a fourth
degree burn peeling my skin back
at every turn. He's an anaphylactic shock -
like the hands of a broken clock. I stop.
sandra wyllie Sep 2023
were we of champagne
and brie, golden sunflowers
and rain showers Painting
rainbows over a cornflower

sky. Both flying high as
a condor, not fonder of another.
We only had each other. Blooming
a woodland garden. Didn't see

you harden under a diamond
stitched quilt of December
snow. Remember, carrying the guilt
like a bucket to and fro. Autumn

leaves must fall. In the crimson
with limbs in and hair tangled
in the fire. Both heading for the
funeral pyre.
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