I believe it was you who fluffed
the straw around the shards of glass
that poked up from the decking the back porch
steps,
just after a sliver of truth speared
that song and dance wart emblazoned upon
your tongue.
Are you a sweeper
or a bearded chameleon?
The shadows of the ceiling fan
are whirling like a guillotine, the
breeze catching flakes of dust from
the wicked bones you found in my body.
All these hidden revelations are
just razors in my ear.
The danger spoke.
Your boxes are at the door.
***
J.lynn Sheridan writes in the Chain O’ Lakes of northern Illinois in a very ordinary house, but she’d rather live in an old hardware store for the aroma, ambiance, and possibilities. She has recently been published in Beyond the Dark Room and Storm Cycle 2012, also at Em Dash Literary Magazine, and Four and Twenty Literary Journal, MouseTales Press, and Enhance. She is currently working on her first novel. Find her at writingonthesun.wordpress.com 
