The Rust And The Trunk Poem by Kevin John Mangan

Into it I have peered cautiously
eyeballing the rumpled lot not
meaning to stir up the delicate
moth-feast coursing from cuff to collar.
A mulching orgy ingesting the fabric
of people I once knew well.

One shaft of new dawn light splits
the velvet curtain cleavage, elucidating
with Aztec surity the tight geometry of
the trunk, ; drawn from morning room draped
shadows it holds the space in a sarcophagus
like trance near golden levitas.

And then a placid whispering whirring
deliciously through aged oak seams
pulsing against the wrap of chipped
black tin metal fastened at the corners
in brass lion paws, tarnished bewteen
the claws, it clenches its quarry while they
eat.

When I lean in one emerges virgin and virile
edging the rusty keyhole, blooming white wings
pushing through a crust of red rust, the maiden
mingling of wing dust with barren lock rust star-
burst the room air and hangs there

and then in an immaculate unison of white noise,
shadeless birds of paradise, in one final
gesture they arise, stall and holding place
beat out an appartition of your face.
An insectual twitching likeness I once knew
too well.