I must have been a saint
in a previous life
basted sweet sweetly
sugar-rimmed burnt to
the pan of heat hot
scalded sticky with
pure, pure love
like I love my
kids – like I love
the fade of sun
to moon; the melt
of snow to spring
he loves
me and I look
to him, at him
through him
and I swear, I
must have been
a saint in a
previous
life.
Beside splintered fence posts
negative space awaits
the planting of the heavy-fruited
tomato green, the leafy romaine, the
bulbous yellow-skinned squash
Cool sun streams through -
early spring molecules dance
to the frosted ground’s tune
Warm, warm, dark friend!
Cuddle the seeds tamped sweetly -
embrace the roots that
will burst against you
as you soften
Rise to the air young babies and
fill that negative space, keep
those fence posts company
and weep freely in the breath
of spring’s full-on promise.
Clump of vine strangling
itself along with
the tree of you
weighing you down
I know it to be true
by the slump of your
neck carrying
all that bluster of
head and brain.
Sometimes you
work up a smile
even still and
I reach out to soften
your calluses
but your
hand
is already waving
farewell.
Most women choose
wisely their seats
in this life
Often mummified
in hormonal gauze -
Fogged with their burdens
of emotion and heart -
alas, their strengths.
They wander with aim -
some bravely, with their sisters.
Others charge ahead ugly -
later miserable with the lonely
chair they’ve chosen.
In the end, it is their
walk to walk – no fault
but their own that they
lazily dropped their
eyelids when
making the
journey.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
Don’t pretend you didn’t see me
I know your game -
the twist of your neck
it all smells so familiar
so don’t think you can
pull one over on me
Me, who has tasted your
thick whiskers prick of
tongue and skin so
sweet with whatever it is
you do all day.
I remember it all, so
don’t duck me
and act like
we never happened. She
may go about her day arranging
furniture, but I just sit on mine
seething and wish
for your demise.
The least you can do
is say hello.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
Cutting those babies in half
weaning and losing her grip
Cramped clutch clawing
at that last snip of clarity
before the storm
O that storm!
Batten down the hatches -
it’s raked her sky
many times before
Lifted her skirts overhead
and broken trees already
bent with compassion
toward her risk -
Dankest murk
enveloped and swollen
at the seams of her
Yet still she runs naked
through it – to it and
screams from her chest
blown open painfully
but with a pure love like
none other
bleeds sweetly
from her pen.
Night fans whir
while cats lie still
for dark to meet
their wait
Tick of type -
alone inspired
day shut down and
I’m fading late
Nothing really to say
but soak in the day
on tomorrow’s
lovely cusp
Sufficiently alone
in a sleeping home
and time to
gather my rest.
Suck of rolling
pucker of paint
sponge saturated and
sopping lure of latex lick
Drive of arm up, up, up
then back downward
waxing the wall and like
magic, aged-white
marked heavy by
smoke curls lashing
near-gray, now
coated clean
with the smoothest
and quietest of
clear blues.
Days of trying you on
for size – you, more often
than not had dark hair
and looked a little
Italian, even
if you weren’t
I always danced around
who I turned out to be -
swirling in her presence
just to see if you’d bite
You usually did, but
I’d want too much and
we’d go our separate ways
but most of you I still
remember fondly and
all of your birthdays are
burned into my memory
even though I have
a tough time remembering
my own children’s.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
You, down back
burning the couch
beating the tar out of the
place we sat just last week
our first major purchase
made in our coupledom,
bought with my brokerage job
bonus (remember?)
now food to the flame
crackle and spittle
broken down wood ash
and it seems it should
mean something
something symbolic
something weighty
or dark – about us
but it doesn’t
it’s just heat and smoke to
warn the kids about and
crumple of dusty fabric
to pack away until the
next trash pick-up.
You, just down back
burning the couch.
