Antigone

Prize winning contemporary poem from E.B. Johnson.

Shuffling.

In the short, grey confines of the cotton-bound corridors,
your heart trips like a wire in the place of a bomb.

I crawl inside the burnt and broken edges of your tin-
lined, rusted seclusion and wait for the touches and
screams that break like ice.

Silence.

Washed in the warmth of the undulating love that shows no
bounds past the bonds of eternal…