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.
Dust of river
dried thirsty -
achingly quiet but
not alone in the wait
all green bowed
in prayer that
the sky will open
and quench sooner
than later.
Crisp of page -
wilted edges
shrugged with story
dust of crease
crack of binding
dressed in gilded
shimmered scroll
Thumbskin black
with weep of ink
and I breathe
each word so
deep I taste it.
Cycling naked over
hills of stars
through blackest
night filled with hope
on the brink of tomorrow
I shudder with the
wind, but goosebumps
or not
I wouldn’t have it
any other way.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
Her birthday and
it all means so much
when you’ve just
turned seven
and I celebrate it
with her the best way
I know how and
she beams all
day long
as she’s more than
half my height and
the most beautiful
girl I’ve ever seen
all I can wonder
is where did my
tiny pink baby,
the one with the
birthmark-spattered
face, go?
When the day
doesn’t go my way
I curl up fetalwise
chin to chest and try
to avoid the stare
of the empty mask
wooden shell slits
of blackest eyes
hollow and only
staring.
.
Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
Head back and
cocked highway
air rushing through
nostrils eyes closed
to my whip of hair
loose and wild
Cush of treetops
leafy carpet against
the sky shaved clean
through with pavement
and stripes of cars
bruising the quiet -
all rumble and
heat
fearing nothing but
content if I die in
this moment.
