set the table for the day, brush the ravens from
throw a stone through the window pane-
first was night, darkness without form
This was called 'The Impending'.
on the street a man reaches for a door-
passes through. a child, a woman,
(keys in hand, or she reaches into a pocket
with one hand while they hold
pastries, books, the dunning letters)
always the door closes behind them.
the ravens, nonplussed, have settled on the bookshelves
the stone has gone through the window and longs for
the sea, which is
people continue to pass, the door closes, changing
them from what they were.
the day has eaten its meal- the remains lie
scattered on the table,
staining the cloth.
burning, you draw the curtain of night to your shoulders
brush the salt from my skin-
don't believe the sea
it thinks to console.
you stand, no fingers to do the work,
no paint. my mouth no mouth.
on your eyelid, tiny creatures
curl at the base of each lash.
the sun spills its light against the hills.
blood darkens when it hits the air.
nowhere is safe, least here.
just the sea, the stars,
this bruised flesh we hold.
Scott Odom is an editor at Web Del Solís Writers Block. He will have a poem appearing in an upcoming anthology Off the Cuffs. He lives on the central coast of California with his wife and daughter.
Potentially, might be ...