by Maureen Kingston
I’m the open
seam at the
hem of your
Oxford shirt.
I can’t be seen
by day because
you tuck me in.
Only at night,
egged on by
whiskey might,
do I truly exist.
You promise
to mend me,
to attend to me,
but you never do.
We unravel
one evening
in orgiastic rage,
threads ripping
from their roots,
tangling, strangling
for dominance.
Maureen Kingston lives and works in Wayne, Nebraska.  Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Alehouse Press, Blue Collar Review, Blue Earth Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, Lucid Rhythms, Melusine, Paddlefish, Plains Song Review, Nebraska Life, Tipton Poetry Journal, Triggerfish Critical Review and the anthologies Words Like Rain and The Great American Road Show.

© 2010, Maureen Kingston