A Poetry Showcase for December Lace

Rose, Skull, White Rose, Rose Petals
Thornfield Hall 
first published in Rhythm n bone press Issue 6: Love

My heart is Thornfield Hall
and I am your ashen governess,
ventricles pounding stronger
behind a ribcage of poverty
and literature written in cursive.

Your inherited hallways
blaze with an inferno
of secrets and mystery,
sharper than pain and

there are too many losses in my life
to keep me from dismissing the echoes
that you left in the hollows
of my chambers. I will share

this collapsed mansion with you
that a foreign fire claimed and
I can guide you down the path
that has been spared.

I can walk at your pace,
there are no ghosts anymore-
dead embers of final secrets
sealed off from the one you love most.

Love Letter from a Ragdoll to a Skeleton Performer
first published in Rhythm n bone press Issue 6: Love

All of this is a nightmare, my love-
sewing stitches in blue-hued skin
as you wander off in a skeletal vacancy;
your theatrical mind loosening in a spiral
no cerebrum of mine can reach
while patches of pumpkins begin to push out their rot,
the glow of the moon casting down a spotlight
not quite bright enough for your creative hands,
the hill on which you stand too earthly and isolated
for a stage. I know you think you'll wither without
an entrance, my love, but you are far more adored
than any persona you think you've created with your
own bones. Uncover your core and let me see the
exposed insides of what you push away, let me
rub the dust of what your mortar and
pestle thumb and forefinger do to yourself
when you ponder the night away while you
think I'm asleep. I'll take you into my skin, I'll take you
into my stiches. Please let me in. I've seen the gaps
underneath your pinstripes and there is room for me.

The Second Ophelia
first published in Dark Marrow Issue 2 March 2019

Lining my pockets with stones was the best alternative, my love
I didn't want to skim the surface in a secluded pond,
oily dredge seeping into my nostrils, pores
No,
              this will be a brightly lit lake under a spotlight of violent sun.
Jonquils and jasmine threading through my fevered hair,
a torrent of water gushing through my throat.
Synapses unspooling while silent, clouded lullabies on loop lull me to sleep.
My own mouth quietly singing hymns over the laps of trembling water,
                                                       the tumbling rushes that will govern me

I sing not of defeat, but of the peace I swim so desperately to,
my sinking body a difficult analogy for those born without our defects -
you with a boiling temper and tunneled eyes,
                                                                                    me with an anvil mind
and a predisposition to permanent loss over temporary joy...

The stormy thoughts that battle within me have no bearing on you, my darling-
they stir and brew, collide behind my eyes-
                                                                            weigh like my swelling lungs

Home Recovery in the Countryside
first published in Dark Marrow: Issue 3 Crucifix July 2019

My fever still hasn't broken.
Crows stare at me from my whitewashed porch
while the pitcher of milk sits on the sideboard,
a towel draped neatly at its side.

They haven't moved from the paint chipped railings in days-
they're bunched in clusters-murders-thick amounts of
             swollen chests, huddled hearts, and sharp beaks.
Twitchy, squat droplets of ink that rove around on this barren landscape
stretching their claws upwards, pointing at the sky, accusing it.

There isn't a mailbox for miles.
Their onyx eyes             like rosary beads
                                   follow
paired in fidgety feathered beasts.
They were sent to watch me
                           - and they want in!-
they can see under my bandages,
gossamer wrapped me mummy style
guarding against the flies, the infection, the air.

My tongue moves in shifts, thick like marbles,
the enamel of my teeth turning to water
dripping down my throat
downing me
                               -I can't breathe!-

but they haven't made a sound.

They want my throat.
They want to peck at the holes
                                      in the back of my raw throat
so they can get to my soul
                                                                                They can smell the stitches

Poems by December Lace in Fevers of the Mind Anthologies

December Lace is a former professional wrestler and pinup model from Chicago. She has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Pro Wrestling Illustrated, The Molotov Cocktail, Pussy Magic Lit, The Cabinet of Heed, Dark Marrow and Rhythm & Bones YANYR Anthology, among others as well as the forthcoming Riggwelter Press and Coffin Bell. She loves Batman, burlesque, cats, and horror movies. She can be found on Twitter @TheMissDecember and http://decemberlace.blogspot.com.



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