Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

The Double Loss

He tried to churn my grief into sex,
my still form, so much as butter,
hardly mobile, his lips and tongue
whipped fast -

What am I now? A sleepless waste
gone sour. I cannot touch
I cannot trust
I cannot
at
all

get past the sudden arrest
of wrongness, the moment stolen
when close to worn-out peace,

the rancid of a salted stick -
My mouth I cannot taste. I cannot
not shake, I cannot bed
any longer

that safe space curdling
a harder grief.
 
 
Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared/is forthcoming in Vox Poetica, Your Daily Poem, Third Wednesday, and The Foundling Review. She also co-edits the publication Cahoodaloodaling with poet-in-arms Kate Hammerich.

Categories: Poetry

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