behind the glass                                        behind the glass
pictures of you                                          wine is drunk, out

hung from a tree                                       cold on your tongue
like winter fruit                                         words come

or bent with a machete                            slaved minutes tainted years
tasting sweat                                             passed out in the dirt, first face

cold on your neck; frozen                        forgetting nothing
while your kids                                          but breath, hot

whimper their fear heavy                         out of faith, rifled
with heat; while you prepare                  forgiveness stalks

for the worst                                              surrender costs
outcome of capture                                  more than matters

men: several                                              flickers to mirrors
night: one Enough                                   your eyes refract fragments
long
                                                                     absence in place
survival time-tangled in                         of presence, tattooed black you
cannot shut the door tight
Enough                                                        me painted burgundy
                                                                      tilted back to throat scorch
back wind oblivion
strangulate sound, scents                        velvet listener
                                                                       no danger in
between fists and glass and ears
staccato of machine gun tears                 fingers curled on stem
Enough                                                         caressing the glass

                                                                        can’t it be enough
                                                                        to be quiet and love you




item #14357

title: diamond pane
form: broken couplets
index: barbara turney wieland
note for the curator:
“for j”
BTW

Barbara Turned Wieland (BTW) takes time for green tea steeped in a teapot, enjoys a bit of 100% dark chocolate, and putting pen or paint to paper to see what emerges. Ever in wonder, she stuffs her stuff into a drawer and listens for eventual mating calls. She is not embarrassed by being an Aussie living in Switzerland, longing for sun; for the moment. Her work has appeared in Blue Mountain Review, Spillwords, skinnypoetryjournal, and Rat’s Ass Review, among others.

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