Daily Archives: March 7, 2015

. bottles . by Sonja Benskin Mesher

I am not a silent poet

bottles

now it is installed,
I can write of it.

my husband’s portraits,
in the first cabinet,
locked, precious.
a photograph below,
pickled in time, sweet to the touch.

the top is the negative side of him.

the middle is reflective,
the mirror smashed.

bell jars are easy, chain store,
small dome more difficult,
borrowed from his grave
when the ants crept.

larger dome is mine. part
of my memorial piece, my
space reserved six years ago,
due to the high water level
in that hallowed ground.

we will lay side by side to molder.

the second cabinet.
now it is installed I can write of it.

lower shelf, the guilt I felt ,
about most things, nurtured
this way it still remains.

yet now it is locked away
in the glass cabinet.

two portraits of a lover,
you may know of him?

the secret pickled,
sent out into the world

View original post 200 more words

I stand quietly

Dirty, Naked & Happy

I stand quietly while you do somersaults on the bed as you aren’t being naughty, you are just trying to get your out of sync body under control.

I stand quietly by the toilet door every time you need to go, and come with you around the house, and sometimes even just across the room, because I know you can feel truly frightened when you are not near me.

I stand quietly at the supermarket checkout while everyone stares at you barking like a dog and blowing raspberries on my arms to cope with the buzzing lights.

I stand quietly while you tell the baffled shop owner that you are looking for shoes that feel hard like splintered wood because your skin can’t bear soft things.

I stand quietly when the attendant gives us scornful looks when I ask for the key to the disabled toilet because the hand dryer…

View original post 800 more words

:: bottles ::

A true gem by Sonja Benskin Mesher

sonja benskin mesher

:: bottles ::

now it is installed,
I can write of it.

my husband’s portraits,
in the first cabinet,
locked, precious.
a photograph below,
pickled in time, sweet to the touch.

the top is the negative side of him.

the middle is reflective,
the mirror smashed.

bell jars are easy, chain store,
small dome more difficult,
borrowed from his grave
when the ants crept.

larger dome is mine. part
of my memorial piece, my
space reserved six years ago,
due to the high water level
in that hallowed ground.

we will lay side by side to molder.

the second cabinet.
now it is installed I can write of it.

lower shelf, the guilt I felt ,
about most things, nurtured
this way it still remains.

yet now it is locked away
in the glass cabinet.

two portraits of a lover,
you may know of him?

the secret pickled,
sent out into the world

View original post 200 more words