Prey
By Janice C. Beavers

 

Crippled
   like a wounded baby raccoon;
      half blind
           sniffing its own
           scent of death.

Remember the window?
   The one you looked into and
      tried to brush
           off the fingerprints
           smeared with guilt.

Shrinking…
   Arranging myself in scuffed
      up jeans of past fondling
           only to wake up in a maid's
           room with a dumb waiter.

Taste of raindrops
   falling upon the memory
      of mirrors that send
           nightmares through
           my veins.

Pumpkins
   filled with empty meat.
      My room with blackboards that
           janitors fail to clean,
           floors go unswept.

Kiss me.
   I need the fire at home again
      to make me quiver with white
           excitement; a summer's night
           ready to be touched.

A thought.
   A captive mind engulfed in
      rhythmic banality. No spontaneous art,
           just joked filled water pipes
           of a coward's applause.

 
Janice C. Beavers is a high school English teacher of 16 years. She is currently taking the year off to devote to her writing career. She's in the process of writing a novel as well as a collection of poetry. She can be reached at fever2c[at]aol.com.

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