Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Cipher’s Montage

There were two jars
that Alice’s mother had hidden
in the bookshelf behind four
thick books, whose covers
were slowly letting go of
their edges to orange peeled nostalgia.
Whenever Alice received a word
she put it inside one of the jars.
As if they were tiny specks of
wind caught by the mirror.
She never knew what it meant
to be her, she was only them.

Her grieving eyes, just an attic’s
armchair, watching dust turn
dustier.
In her was the poisoned salt
thrown at the beggar,
in her were the split hands
guiding her to preserve miseries
in expensive daffodils.

Every night, she steps inside a dress
made of glass and taps it hard.
Only dry leaves fall out.
 
 
Carol Whitby is currently pursuing her MFA in Sydney, and is working on her first poetry chapbook. Her poems are forthcoming in Eunoia Review, among others.

Advertisements

Categories: Poetry

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

1 reply

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s