Janice C. Beavers

like a wounded baby raccoon;
half blind
sniffing its own
scent of death.

Remember the window?
The one you looked into and
tried to brush
off the fingerprints
smeared with guilt.

Arranging myself in scuffed
up jeans of past fondling
only to wake up in a maid’s
room with a dumb waiter.

Taste of raindrops
falling upon the memory
of mirrors that send
nightmares through
my veins.

filled with empty meat.
My room with blackboards that
janitors fail to clean,
floors go unswept.

Kiss me.
I need the fire at home again
to make me quiver with white
excitement; a summer’s night
ready to be touched.

A thought.
A captive mind engulfed in
rhythmic banality. No spontaneous art,
just joked filled water pipes
of a coward’s applause.


Janice C. Beavers is a high school English teacher of 16 years. She is currently taking the year off to devote to her writing career. She’s in the process of writing a novel as well as a collection of poetry. She can be reached at fever2c[at]

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