My

My mistress is a feverish lie carved from vinyl shower curtains, displayed over cups of tea, selling scandal at your pastor's bake sale. - My shame, a bloated belly, stomach growing with each half cup of spite and ground-chuck beef, ravaging esophagus, burning the space under sternum's deep vein. - My inn-keepers write me daily, sending photos of unmade beds, unread Gideon bibles, housekeepers working the graveyard kissing busboys on the ice machine. - My lost cousins sing Country-Western with slide guitar, Summer day bourbon, because one scared woman dared to leave her father's sacred fields. - My cheeks are healed by satin stroke, loosening locks, seducing combinations of jazz piano, a buzzing microphone. - My pillows carry pirate ships, captained by bearded biceps, scarring eyelids with unknown travels that bloody T-shirt collars. - My shoulders hold the secrets to campfire romances, stockpiled embers, autographed to cocktail napkins, where her name is washed away. - My righteous howl lifts my knees cracks rheumatoid knuckles, tearing plaid from the button strings, this is where my heart resides.