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Johanna Warren

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Johanna Warren

Pin Oaks

You knocked and I let you in
(unlocked the door, led you under my skin)
but hate lay like a snake in the grass,
waiting to strike at our heels as we passed.

She kept the key to my dark room;
she left and warped the weft of my loom.
I saw hordes of gray eyes and dark, hungry mouths;
Lord knows what they were mumbling about.

I lost hold of the rail I was grasping—
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ghostly pale, quaking like an aspen.
Now this thick rope encircles my neck.
Whisper, 'I hope you're quick to forget.'

Grief warms the back of your throat;
greedy wind snatches at your threadbare coat.
Pin oaks and old rusty nails—
pinafores rustle and fill like sails.