Childhood is a charlatan
I have eaten all the
red lollipops there are to lick,
and my face is permanently stained.
I am a constant victim of curiosity.
Free time flies away
on a paper airplane.
I left my wherewithal
in a cubby.
No one ever told me
just take three licks.
Take your licks now.
God filtered through rain,
six color promise.
The sun he forged
burning my toast from
the immunized difference
between us.
My promises are colorful too.
Purple promise to my husband,
to love the landscape of
his judgments.
Red promise to absorb his kisses,
squeeze mine out on his
body like a lotion.
Yellow promise of waiting
for him in the gaps.
Intricately,
the neighbor paints the windows
with the image of his bare chest,
feral abs,
face that cleans itself.
His wife will come through
the white front door
with a basket of
feline flowers.
Like lace
they will crisscross.
and I will close the blinds.
The ghost tries my
new furniture,
finds it comfortable,
sits inside me when I
refuse to get up and
make way.
I’ve not been inhabited
by myself in many days,
so this is refreshing.
But I itch.
He doesn’t quite fit.
Firm meadows
call me out.
Work is not my friend,
always one foot
ahead of my disease eaten ankle.
Tuesday will dissolve.
I died as a child,
and drew my first breath
as an adult.
In the creamy morning light,
fat snow lounges on the mountaintop.
My new day has no confidence.
My shoes wait by the door,
made of bone china
And stained with my used blood.
Secondhand fire bounces
off the receding moon.
Numbers await me,
my house and my mind
Filled with them.
Math cuts me.
The subtraction demanded
of me is too much.
I shove my feet in my shoes.
Outside the morning is frosting
on my world.
I have nothing but
the robbery of my body.
Somewhere in the identified town,
an old friend who does not tire out
lights the lamp.
It’s amazing what forms he takes
when he is alone.
Indivisible shape of personal election
and sweltering affiliation.
Loyalty of nationality,
shown by unlimited birth.
Women and infants like
oil and flame.
Surrounded by the neighbors,
He lives the life he has been given,
cleaning the cleanest of plants.
Small as a pond,
You are bordered by mossy velvet.
You act like me.
Rivers do not
associate with women.
First I was a fish.
Then I was provided with womanhood.
The oars on the canoe
Love one another in Morse code.
I’ll walk under the hollow water.
My understanding of
beauty and all that you can do
flourishes like kelp,
always below the surface.
The soft lassitude
of a day parked by the fire,
like a car primed for a
make out session between
secret sex singers.
A leg soft and gently
dimpled,
an arm resting on the
pillow.
Outside,
a sea of hats I wear
to greet the constraints
of time and truth.
Fingers graze my nipples,
a hand cups my belly.
I have harvested the
secrets planted in my
garden long ago,
and they sit in a vase
drinking heavily from
their water.
She is my mirror,
but softer and more
at home with placid
calm.
The glass fell away from us,
and now we interlace in
front of a fire cooler than us.
Miniature Moon 