They Lie

the thing with Mondays
is –
they lie

that eternal weekend
lives in its shell
at a deeper level of
sea than you’ll ever go-

tethered to the busting
waves by an insipid Monday

There is no compassion
in industry.

you will always be desperate
in the tidal pools,
the diving suit you live in
desperate for elsewhere

Friday,
In his flippers and goggles
Does not exist.

The Emperor

The gold thread holding
Leadership’s hammock
Is fraying like my personality.
I put my star-spangled mouth
On my husband’s face
with no aim.
His breath cascades over my
Neck.
Everyone on our street
has a laundry room but me
Our little girl wears old
Onesies and roller skates
in the shower.
The emperor has clothes.
He just doesn’t want us
to see them.
like a mathematician
he subtracts us one by one
where I go, my husband goes
his breath locked onto
my hips.

Female

the globe gingerly turns
on an axis she would not
have picked for herself
if given the choice

she has a crush on the
black hole
that calls her sometimes

something about that
event horizon
feels so remarkably other

her identity is unknown to her
not even the sun will tell
her she is gifted