Poetry – Page 5 – Joan Spilman

This Textured Darkness, #33

A giant of a man stood in the doorway, hair white as snow, loosed from a leather band.

Until three days ago,” Milo pointed to the skull, “This was a man we called the Poet.”

Milo Janket, or Milo the Lantern as he was called in Marsh Wool, stood before the throne, trying not to soil his breeches.

Milo Janken, or Milo the Lantern as he was called in Marsh Wool, stood before the throne, trying not to soil his breeches.

He’d caught the eye of a buxom barmaid who asked for coin.

Did the nurse know who she was talking to? She’s not some floozy who fetches the morning paper in her nightgown!

“My source tells me the bark is odd. Flesh colored with specks of red. The shoots spring up, only to die.”

“Here is the message you must take. Read it before it is waxed.”

With wide eyes, Agnes listened to the most ingenious plan she’d ever heard. Cora lived in an “in case of emergency” mode.

He reads something in my face I have no words for. “Okay,” Tim says. “You can have your divorce.”