A string of oyster abortions his gift.
Hers – an overflowering bouquet of lilacs,
plucked forgiveness
scented crucifixes masked
the odour of briny fingers. A choker
of memories buried in purple crosses,
necklaced embryos worn until
the season changed. The lilacs
browned amid the mound of
viscera and shucked empty shells.
She kept the necklace.
He left the lilacs.
Writing Bites 
Few words- much said – provocative! Nailed it!
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Thank you, Donna.
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Oh my! Feverishly good, it burns, it breaks, it froths.
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It’s comments like that, Christy, that light the blogoshere. Many thanks.
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Poets are not paid, period.
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I am paid in the pleasure of reading kind comments. It is very sad that poetry is not valued more but what can one expect in the era of the Kardashians and The Game of Thrones.
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Jesus. I read this three times. This is how you write poetry!
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My goodness, I’m so pleased you liked it, Tony. Thank you. I worked on this one for a while – over several weeks, picking at it and spent probably another 2 hours yesterday, fiddling. Good thing poets aren’t paid by the hour.
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A veritable feast of symbolism….and of smells!
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I used to love oysters until last year when I got food poisoning from them and was stranded far from home. I’ll never forgive them.
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