LINDA BONAFIELD - "BITTERS" COLLECTION

With a collection soon to be published in Five Poetry Magazine, Linda Bonafield has previously had news articles published in various newspapers and magazines in Charleston, SC and Minneapolis, MN.  She has two bachelor's degrees in Communication-Journalism, and Spanish from The College of Charleston.  She currently resides just outside of Minneapolis, MN, and enjoys spending time with her five-year-old son,  painting rocks and writing.

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                      Bitters
 
 
                                               Gossip
 
 
you said to her mother -
her court, a few things
 
shattering a vision
of her, for her tenacity
 
shriveled, but she tried
to love anyway, knowingly
 
tethered and wise about your
too ripe spoils.
 
so she took her bite
back -- turned the cheek,
 
but wait, you were saying,
she did what?
 
 
 
                                                                        true
 

Intoxicating dream tucked in a box in a box,
wrapped in year after year of fantasy:  daddy
adoption long ago, but I unwrapped
before your eyes and you, adoring my every word
with syrupy greeting cards and bouquets,
bucked wise moves, and our nestled minds
seemed perpetually entwined.
 
I thought I liked your wise, but it was ancient
politics of ruin which then decidedly deflated
balloon after balloon, year after year --
daddy demonstrating a distance devoid
of delicacy, with spitball words injurious,
and syrupy greeting cards -- not for me --
but nestled with another; in my consciousness.
 
He's grown now -- shaking curious boxes, stirring
us to act civilly, which I do, despite the head shot
I've dramatically survived, specifically to tell him --
when fates deem — that daddy's been chilled
and he won't hurt us any more than what's contained
in ancient boxes, which we'll duly dismiss, nestling,
snug and secure, into our true and untainted dream.
 
 
                                                Cob
 

I would be a scarecrow
were I not stuffed with potion pills:
Now, I am a stringed marionette,
paper-machéd, stiffened and brittle,
dancing rote and predictable,
induced with merriment --
pleasing the puppet makers
who paint my make up,
achingly detailed, to never guess
at my gnat-infested interior
of soft matted hay, itching
to feel a warm breeze
in the middle of a cornfield,
tickling through my solitary cob --
reminding me of what is real.
 
 
 
                                            ravished
 
​
I breathed in a cloud and when I spoke,
pearls fell out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I drank an ocean and little pink shells
poured out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I ate a mountain and little gold nuggets
tumbled out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I ate a rainforest and little clear diamonds
spilled out of my mouth, and I made a necklace.
 
I inhaled a desert and little red scorpions
streamed out of my mouth, and they made a necklace, and I died.