Mississippi Castles

by Shaun Terry

 

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She rests on tin bedfeathers.
Her heart oscillates
with the sound of foam crescendos,
splashing into the fickle floor.
The walls sweat,
awaiting the warmth of her bellows.

“Compromise” is a word that describes what Benedict Arnold felt;
she doesn’t know this word.

She is parting with parasites
that have plagued her.

Shining instruments shake,
and sing endless songs.
Sweet drinks from hidden French provinces
fill half-full bellies.
Plump, round pearls form a perfect oval
about the trunk of her head.

A globe
– that archaic artifact of expansion and wonder –
rests near a joint of two walls,
in her craftily curated home.
She’ll point out Mauritania,
if you’re invited.

Her pillows are soft and neat.
Her rocking chair is fair and firm.
She’ll play delta blues
on a chrome harmonica,
if you’re invited.

She knows what she wants.

You want to be invited.

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