a poem by Charlotte Cunningham McEachin

Mourning Now

I am not May Welland,
so I wake up and recount my dream,
hoping, finally, you'll make me your whore.

When I found out (for I asked you),
there was some sad pleasure...
what was it...Wellsville? Welland?

Where
You
Went?

In my dream,
you look out on the Nevada landscape
In my dream,
you look out on the miniature mountains
while my face is nestled

between
your
legs.

I suck.

And you, stubborn,
look away and demand I

DO - IT - BETTER
(there is no 'them').

You pay for my milky
breasts.
You pay for my wet
mouth.
You pay for my...

***

Ahhhhh,
but it is morning now,
and you read about
Buscaglia,

AND LOVE.

And I, I
hoping that just
once (or more)
you'll make
me your

Mrs.
Thorley
Rushworth,

await you.

© by Charlotte Cunningham McEachin
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #5 ~ September 2009     return to top