Smoke and Mirrors

Better lemons with sugar
Are slippery and asleep

Until they hang on tendrils
Or the muscle clamps a suffered drum
Of tightly wound canvas pulp.

Then you see your hands 
Turned suede gloves
To a false prophet

This book is dull.
I hate it but I wrote it 
and rehearsed 

Before I even chose
When to dredge 
my dirty palate.

They taste the same sometimes,
unsaturated juice is insipid
These hymns of yellow oak are no more sweet

But they keep the table clean

Even so they’re in my throat
Like oil, the sinking kind
A coiling wax as lyrical as this split tongue

Watch its rubber burden my flesh
A lavishly thoughtless reprise
Of my ghostly sin

We are all seen
Leather is only skin-deep
And occasionally 

We sit beside people
Who reflect

On smoke and mirrors

By Freya Robinson

1 comment

  1. You are so talented! I love reading your poems and checking out your creations. Good job!