Seamless ashen clouds
cloak a deep autumn sunset;
wet leaves cling to wool.
© Nancy Botta, 2019.
Lavender sachets.
One night
she came home alone
and slumped into
a dozen throw pillows
clustered like fungi
on her floral couch—
face down in polyester,
everything smelled like
musty lavender,
wilted bra straps,
and the wandering musk
of a man gone astray.
© Nancy Botta, 2019
Washing the dishes.
A soapy ceramic serving dish
struck the low corner of the wall;
she never liked Toile curtains,
she never liked the look
her father-in-law gave her,
she never liked her blonde dye job,
or the way her husband wants her
to just lay there—
the shards were swept up
after two bitter cigarettes,
and a bit of pillow screaming.
© Nancy Botta, 2019
The Gardner.
If you catch her at sunrise
with fistfuls of dirt
and sweat on her lips,
tell her;
the burden of planting seeds
will never be shared
by the men who plucked
all the midnight flowers
blooming in her bed.
© Nancy Botta, 2019
Backlot. (haiku)
An ocean of shale
couldn’t keep lovers apart—
weeds reach for the sun.
© Nancy Botta, 2019
Rusted Honey 