Laced Intentions

I hate lace curtains
and their contortionist ways.

Their holes deforming
like Munch’s scream at the slightest tug—
underdogs in a futile cage match
against the day.

I hate them for their impotence
while holding all the strings. Gutted
like Geppetto without a puppet.

I’m repulsed by their magnetism—
trapping insects like carnivorous plants.
Tangling. Devouring.

Blooming like corpse flowers.
Absorbing nicotine stains like filters.

I hate them —
for bending me over the sink.
Scouring, soaking, scrubbing their yellow rind.
Bleaching.

Although I never recover anything truly pristine,
I hate them like virginity.

For peddling deprivation
as something delicate.

For straining the world through their colander,
as if the whole view
might lodge in my iris forever.

I even hate them for their kin on grandma’s table —
the white doily
under the chicken bowl.

The one she filled with hard candies.
The ones that made you choke.

Lorrie Ness works in Silver Spring, Maryland as a psychologist and poet. She draws inspiration for her writing through time outdoors. Writing is her means of refuge and connection.  She has forthcoming publications at Sky Island Journal, SOFTBLOW, The American Journal of Poetry, Rosebud and the Big Windows Review.