The sun-washed curtains
hang low
racked on metal rings
as they billow out
their starch sprayed limbs
like an air-swollen parachute,
plummeting towards a cool blue
atmospheric grid of tiles
that they will never brush against
with their unfurled cotton
tongues, desperate to lap up
this unattainable sea of relief
set tantalizingly before them.
The loud tassel teases the trimless
mouth for always being left agape
by the slightest draft,
letting in spools of threadbare light
that slant through the kitchen window
and knit themselves into a split
wooden sill, cluttered with dead flies
dried-out from the humdrum summer
heat like raisins. Their translucent wings
crumble to soft dust. Even the once
healthy tomato vine has begun to wilt
into a sullen pot of compost.
Choked with uncut twine, its black
twisted stem wraps around
a garden stake jabbed deep
into the soil. Its putrid red fruits
sag like shrunken voodoo heads
pulled up by the greenish rot
on their scalps. All the while,
the blunt-edged boning knife
just sits there and grins,
catching a glint of something
truly sinister.
***
John Roth is an eccentric individual who believes that weirdness is a
requisite for writing sound poetry. His off centered approach to writing
best explains the peculiar nature of his work. He currently lives in Ohio
and attends the University of Akron as an undergraduate student. His
unhealthy love of Chinese takeout knows no bounds.
