And Yet Again…

i’m rattled in this current space
my body spilling over with red rage
the crash proved fatal
you lurked in the shadows
another slip-up
another flicker of dishonesty

i was ravenous for connection
but found only deceit
this time, i feel no shame
we were already fragile like glass
your apologies and regurgitated guilt
ring hollow

Suzette Bishop

Wedding Ring

The ring won’t come off,
stuck
around my finger for a year,
tarnishing.

The emergency room attendants grasp
ring cutters,
two large, young men
delicately snap
the gold band,
placing the two halves
of an opened circle
in my palm.

The jeweler melds
the ring together.
You can hardly see the cracks,
all the tarnish polished off,
the red impression around
my finger nearly gone.

Veneration

I
A new church where I haven’t been to confession, 
still, the priest knows my sins,
yelling at me to come up and take communion,
wafer stuck in my throat, 
like smoke,
and nothing else.

II
The usher doesn’t need to speak,
flames in his eyes and gestures,
waving me forward to venerate the cross,
again, standing frozen,
not wanting a cold icon,
icy metal body, against my lips.

III
Windowless church basement service
for divorced families,
no communion.
The tight hairband of the veil,
guazy dress,
float away.

The Wrong Church

I was there
in a Protestant church,
my sister in a white hat,

my mother disappointed it wasn’t a veil,
too shy to dance with my new brother-in-law,
afraid to go over to my grandparents’ table,

enemies to my mother after my parents’ divorce.
Shaking, I sign,
witnessing that invalid marriage,

second vows with her second husband
allowed once I slide the paper,
thin as a wafer, to the priest.

A long-distance chilliness follows
about missing my nephew’s December
wedding in the church

decked out in Christmas
poinsettias, sparkle, evergreen, mink coats.
Our cathedral window arches moon’s cloud, 

a filmy eclipsing.

Things That Are Red

my grandfather’s hair
my nephew’s truck and hair
my mother’s lipstick
my father’s misshapen plaid sweater
my sister’s vacuum cleaner, a Red Devil
my husband’s coke can
my other nephew’s choir gown
my mother-in-law’s roses
my grandmother’s eyes
my brother-in-law’s tonsils
the abalone my father-in-law gave me before he died
the blood tying us together

~~~

Suzette Bishop has published three poetry books and two chapbooks, including her most recent chapbook, Jaguar’s Book of the Dead. Her upcoming chapbook, Unbecoming, is forthcoming. Her writing has appeared in many literary magazines and anthologies and won or been a finalist in several contests. She lives in Laredo, Texas. This is Suzette’s first feature with The Short of It.

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Chronic Ambivalence

a heaviness surrounds
the lonely veil i wear
of not being remembered
while i’m right here
silent tears trickle
from an ache to be wanted
arms reaching out
only to be met with distance

what’s the anti-venom for disgust
because it’s slowly killing me

Burning Out

i can feel us drift from the magic
our love becoming a relic
the stars once brilliant,
are now dim
the water we swim in
becoming bloody inky
the beast boils within
a demise beginning
it tracks as the light of love extinguishes
no more words will change the truth
no longer the hunter of the exquisite
i confess disillusionment
for this holy union
as i hear the echo of desires long gone
flames wishing to re-ignite
yet dampened by the inability to catch on a spark
a reality experienced by so many of us
over and over
until we just can’t anymore

Privileged

Redux

I shed my layers of hardness.
The best and the worst of me exposed.
Laid bare all my unspoken evils.
I trusted you’d see me as sane.

My heart wrapped around yours for safekeeping.
Pleasure replaced agony.
Excitement replaced fear.
Love embodied our present.

Am I privileged or are you?

Originally posted September 30, 2018, on I Write Her.

Maybe

Redux

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The gift of time, effort, and quality is love.
Intimate sincerity landing softly in the heart.

I’m not receiving what you think you’re giving.

Maybe you don’t understand what love is?
Maybe I don’t know how to receive it?
Maybe I expect too much?
Maybe you don’t give enough?

Maybe I was wrong?

Originally posted September 27, 2018, on I Write Her.

Slow Burn

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it starts as if a fantasy
every box checked
he’s perfect
don’t you know

slowly…
deliberately…

it becomes a trap
from which you
can’t escape
easily

you become disabled
in the head
so you’ll stay
out of need

still thinking it’s love
but knowing something’s off
the courage and independence
fighting to be recognized

that’s not love
it’s a cage

mistook nice
as being invested
mistook attentive
for genuine care

but the details of todays
are boring
the atmosphere thick
with silence

the possibilities become a dead end

Languishing Here

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relationship blues
twenty years hemming, hawing
death would be kinder

Privileged

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pxhere.com

I shed my layers of hardness.
The best and the worst of me exposed.
Laid bare all my unspoken evils.
I trusted you’d see me as sane.

My heart wrapped around yours for safekeeping.
Pleasure replaced agony.
Excitement replaced fear.
Love embodied our present.

Am I privileged or are you?

Maybe

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Pixabay.com

The gift of time, effort, and quality is love.
Intimate sincerity landing softly in the heart.

I’m not receiving what you think you’re giving.

Maybe you don’t understand what love is?
Maybe I don’t know how to receive it?
Maybe I expect too much?
Maybe you don’t give enough?

Maybe I was wrong?