Three poems by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The Letter

I saw the familiar handwriting
on the envelope, hearts above
every “i” in the address, and
the feather of a shadow passed
into my head. After more than
fifteen years I never thought
I’d see her handwriting again,
addressed not to me but my
husband, and I wondered what
could be inside; how she eclipsed
the blue marble sky. Alone I
watched him open the letter from
his ex-wife, a long one about his
down-and-out son, and I saw
the agony sweep into his eyes.
Way back she was the crow
thrown out in winter dawn from
early heaven and this time she’d
found something new to darken
our lives again. All this time we’d
been on the coast living such
a peaceful life and now it felt
as if she were after us, a mentally
imbalanced person with a strange
logic all her own. We’d thought
we were so far away from her
that she couldn’t bother us, and
now we were willing to move
once more to where she’d never
find us. He’d hidden her letter
away and for two months there
wasn’t a word more. So much
time had comfortably passed
til we had gone to our favorite
shop round the corner, and we
had to rush out without looking
back. Her replica or she herself,
had long ugly dreadlocks, and
it looked like she had weathered
the elements.

____________

The Weight of My Memories

The doctor won’t listen, he’s
rented out his ears when I tell
him the only family I had stole
the tiny golden cross my mother
had given me, written obscenities
in my bible, torn pages out of my
diary. Treated me as a slave till
I finally ran away, nearly robbed
me of every cent I’d made. My
poetry they couldn’t touch because
I kept it locked away; they
thought I had a legacy. Before
I’d left they’d stolen a part of
myself. The sorrow I’ve lived
with in my one bedroom apartment
visited me every day, and I wrote
sonatas for roses in their mournful
dresses, the weight of my memories
spinning their images of what life
used to be by day and when I dream;
and, before they’d leave, I’d see an
angel’s feathers black as a raven’s
wings. Slowly I’d pour my soul in
a heart of glass over the years, my
prayers in the sky nearing heaven,
the light from a dying star blessing
me in the end.

____________

 

Cloud Pulled Over The Sun

A dreamless three nights
sleep, my heart half empty;
the cold, hard porcelain
bathtub against my back
my only tie to reality.
It really did happen. Inside
a room in Motel 6, a visitor
in a cold, windy city, far
away from my home,
clinging to a pair of friends
I knew I shouldn’t have
trusted who I knew I should’ve
just let them go, let them
forget about me while the
years pass on by. My thought
is to leave unscathed while
I can, reaching for a tranquilizer
inside my stash, getting up to
stare at the electronic alarm
clock that reads three fifteen
a.m., its red glow the only
source of light in the room.
My thought is that I’ll never
be able to fall asleep, but my
pill is strong. My eyes close,
and my mind slows to a
sluggish crawl before gently
fading to black, bundled
up like a small child under
bleach-stiff sheets. I haven’t
had a decent sleep in days,
and the first ray of light is
no better. I see the hush of
dawn vanish, a cloud pulled
over the sun.

____________

Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide
variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The
Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, and Old Red Kimono.
Her books of poetry are available at www.Amazon.com and her
work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Best of
the Net 2018 Anthology Awards hosted by Sundress Pubications.
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