I wrote this in the dark
huddled in the closet
despair clutching my throat;
like a lost child — (like)
my mouth full of dust — my
breath heavy and lingering
outside my body.
It's cavity, muddled
and sore, is vexed negation;
a horse, saddled full
to burdensome, with remorse.
I cushion myself, hide and abide
inside the cuddle-space revealed
and concealed — discomfort
being the heart of reality.
The mission of all poets is
to rip away the pretense of
depression, its revealed truth
is the very heart of grief,
like a field after slaughter,
drained of meaning,
fragmented and bulging —
a single campfire left smoldering.
by Annette Gagliardi
Published in the May 2023 issue of Down in The Dirt Magazine (V207, realeased 5/1/23) In print by May 2023. Web page: 