A Stone's Throw

He hurls pebbles, calls them words.
They sting cheek and thigh.
He drinks my blood, his sacrament.

I curse the illness binding me
to this house, that man.

Thorns cover the windows.
Rats scurry across wood floors.
Ghostly voices speak of bloodless days, 
once promised, and lovers who bedded me, 
hearts laid in the palm of my hand.

Pris Campbell

Art: Night by Burne-Jones

Return to Poetry Index I
Return to Homepage