Jaria Gordon
An Edict
quiet ain't kin
until extinguished
your humming fridge croaks
far before evening
can shake good night
tolling the dark living
in this cavernous room
into bunches of laughter
nibbling at
corners
spread so wide
one's eyes spot absence
while mama teaches chess
until the red and black melt
into loosely spattered tiles
only the whites of teeth lucid
before finger pads sign
across abridged walls
spackling slightly and grooved
into chewed nailbeds
the blindness stores itself
and maybe the urge to pee
wouldn't brood
if your thirst wasn't loudest
of all but you
squat the ache away
dip your wash cup into the bathtub
for a drink, leaving more than you take
then salamander across the floor
clothes toppling from the linen closet
turtle your arms inside the mask
of your pink flowing night dress
shrub your toes above the edge
to best the chill
and the most you can do
is wonder how long it takes
before the sun reaches beneath
every door slit to call for the living
and when it may ever be your turn
to forget
~
Born and raised in Lexington, Kentucky, Jaria Gordon is a mother, poet, and endeavoring novelist. In addition to attending "The Twenty," she was a creative writing student in the summer intensive, the Governor's School for the Arts. She lives and works in Lexington.
~