H. E. Riddleton‘s life is synonymous with writing. She is the curious kind, an Alice of sorts and is in constant sought of subject. She is a current editorial staff for her college’s literary magazine: TCC South’s Script and has forthcoming fall publications in The Ibis Head Review and The Light Ekphrastic.

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Venus in Solitude

The private pick
Combs my scoop.

I loop around:
A pot, a cauldron

Of curiosity.
My earth is warm.

What storm?
Oh, it will pass.

Will this ever last,
The want of myself?

Violence lays down,
Not at all primitive.

White sigh, I lie over
Innocence. What sense?

In place of cavernous
Tuck, I am

Vacuum packed.
I am skewed

As I unscrew
My bottom eye

From its tomb.
I drone and groan-

How much
Have I grown?-

With this succulent hat,
Unzipping my hatch, dismember

The latch, the tug of me
Now!

What wanderers
Enter my center?

Roving inwards,
In towards where

The grins lord.
What for?

Comfort is pity.
Pity is comfort.

The rub evacuates.
It is unwanted. It is

Lonely. I dispel my secrets
Elsewhere,

Into the vacuous nag,
Sagging across the Universe.

What hag am I
Without a partner?

And yet, ecstasy is always singular.