Conditioned Avoidance

There’s a feather on my chest
and I can’t move or breathe.
Pinned down by an imprint
and you I can’t appease.

Eggshells, cherry pits,
and ancient, rotting meat,
all this garbage on your floor
and me in my bare feet.

You look as empty as a desert
and you can’t feel or speak,
but a desert isn’t really empty
and jackals never weep.

Disengage, hide away
and pretend that you are not.
I’m busy looking at the floor
and wading through the rot.

© 2007 Marcy Stoeckel