Poetry: Selections From Maria Barnes

Without Yes

 

He doesn’t notice the deadness in my eyes. 

And nothing can overcome a little fear

throbbing inside every image

of a man

and in the air that lungs can touch.

But why would he touch the skin

at the base of my spine,

saying that it’s all right, it’s always all right,

over and over?

Sadness

 

He is near, almost grasping

the gossamer webs of electric lights in my house,

rejecting the outer darkness,

which finds, in his eyes,

black openings and spreads like death

through his mind.

Then he counts my heartbeats,

and enters the room,

and cuts

his throat on my well-sharpened sadness.

Blood Whispers

 

Blood whispers

at the bottom of a bathtub,

but the body is not wide open yet.

It hasn’t absorbed 

a stream of shimmering stars

gliding through the window.

Soon tender crimson flaps will move,

and inside blood will scream

in shocking waves of splendor,

scream about pain that is always nearby.

Hell

Nothing is temporary.

Even the smeared car lights rushing toward you

have no expiration date, no time

behind their flickering pupils.

They are immortal, like you. Every night

you go out to meet another soul

forever compelled to meet you

in their version of this irreversible hell.

 

 

 

 

 

Maria Barnes teaches English and writes dark fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in The Pinworm Factory: A Tribute to Eraserhead edited by Scott Dwyer, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and Samjoko Magazine, among other places.