Ken and Barbie

We draw the shades to hide our clutter.
The dogs one black, another yellow
dream against the floor, clicking paws
across the hardwood; the sound of brooms

sweeping out a cellar.

You remind me to check the doors as if
what we've kept secret here, could return
and rob us of more; my right hand
purple-grey- a dead man, a careful thief

twist the locks repeatedly. Tonight,

there is no wind or heat, through
the skylight, a willow-fingered palm
slices through moonlight, a knife
through cheese or wet hair falling heavily

over a naked shoulder. I feel you

somewhere in the house preparing
for disappointment, drawing up
your knees, a uterine heartbeat slowing,
slowing progressively, an urban disease,

a neoplastic amnesia, like me-

a synthetic doll who lowers
the shades, locks the doors, ignores
the missing pieces, designed to fit in
perfectly, flawlessly, beneath you.


Anonymous said...

Very much enjoyed my walk through your world...as a poet and an avid reader, I found it both enriching and enlightening. Thank you...

Rachel Phillips said...

Thank you, I appreciate your interest; I enjoyed your blog as well!