Wynne Huddleston is a member of the Mississippi Writers Guild and the Mississippi Poetry Society. In 2011, she served as workshop presenter for the Mid-South Poetry Festival. Her poetry has been published in numerous publications including Birmingham Arts Journal, THEMA, Camroc Press Review, The Mom Egg, Southern Women's Review, The New Fairy Tales Anthology, Danse Macabre and Down South Magazine. Visit her at http://wynnehuddleston.wordpress.com/
Games of Chance
I thought you were my savior. I sacrificed
everything for you. God? I called Him
an invention. But when I was high, I’d ask
Him to stop by. I loved you
for your vigor, while you watched me play
Russian roulette, my fingers on the trigger—
loser or victor, no regrets. I loved the intense,
spinning feeling you gave, as I carelessly
threw snake-eyed die on the green table
of my life. I never had a chance, gambling it
all away for you, wanting to lose myself
in the sweet anesthesia you were for every
hurt I felt. Everything ugly became lovely
like synesthesia, surreal. I drank you,
swallowed you, smoked you, ate you,
snorted you, shot you up…you captured
me. I thought you were my savior.
The black ink darkens the page
as I write, yet it shines
in the reflection of my night light.
Footprints tamp down smooth sand
leaving impressions of one’s path;
the waves wipe them clean away.
Cold salty waves spit on sunburned
faces; then moon sings her lullaby,
and tucks them in for the night.
Rain clouds throw their dark coats over
the sun; they cry as thunder rips
them apart, and soon they are gone.
Night draws its blinds shut against
stars peeking through, yet glorious
sunrise thrusts them open.
The night wind screams at every
corner, but the music of day
drowns them to a distant cry.
What Used to Be
When I get lonely, I remind
myself that this is what I chose
over the way it used to be—
an arm across my chest, too
heavy to remove, keeping
me from taking a deep breath,
I kept my notebook hidden.
a leg across my body,
holding me down, so I couldn’t
move, a tongue down my throat so
I wrote my secret thoughts.
I couldn’t speak, in the dark
night, hard muscles, sweaty flesh
lying on top of me, crushing
You had my body, not my heart.
me, burying me, an open
hand, slapping me as he found
my notebook of poetry. I remember
This time you went too far.
my hand turning the knob, him
howling in the shower, the power
I felt as I gently opened the door.