Rejection Slip Poem by MARINA GIPPS

The night calls in all of its dark daughters.
Another one of my lines
in another's poem, published.
And I alone am forgotten.

Like the thesaurus,
feeling the funerals of handshakes.
Setting supper with prehistoric utensils:
a place for one lone
hieroglyphic specialist.

A candle blown out
by an unexpected wind visiting
with locked doors of the past
for the dreary road ahead-

Where television masterminded
a lack of communication;
It always feels like Sunday,
expecting crucifixion, knowing
mail will not come today.