It’s Not Plath, Panzer-man
Earth tones with a touch of fire.
Blank stares. Coppery aftertastes infused
with confusion. An unraveling
sweater and sepia tones
wrapped in age stained lace,
tying tree trunks with twine.
Stumbling through –
foot on sand,
foot on concrete,
foot on gravel.
A raspy voice cutting through muddy
sheers. Vacant expressions. Wicker
and coins and cardboard boxes.
An umbilical cord connected to a ringing phone,
dead quiet with a twist
of Kentucky bluegrass and southern
sun. Army fatigues and secret service
black shed for the prodigal dress.
A haystack brushed with day old
bread and a murky bowl reflecting
clouds. Radio silence. Naked
earth busting at the seams.
Cigarette smoke billowing
through the spokes of a spinning
wheel while thunderstorms ricochet
off brick buildings and crack lines
in sidewalks and spin ferocious
tunnels inside green glass bottles left
in a heap. Negative space
etched on the back of a nightjar.
A daytime chorus of hidden things,
because the moon stole the color of the world
and hid it in its belly.
Elizabeth A. Davidson is currently pursuing her MFA at Lindenwood University. She resides in southern Ohio, where she is an ESOL and adult literacy instructor. Most recently her work has appeared in Rusted Fence and Et Cetera.