Cool with the giant stripe of red legging.
She stands in her podium of potatoes
And sings Christmas carols to her children
Who hear their mother singing but don’t hear what she says.
Glasses make little things look bigger,
So finish your beer and peer into your glass.
This – candy holiday mother and spiced potatoes and unacknowledged songs
Will fade and they will wonder what they wanted to hear
And if she said it.
Sick blue saxophones see the thermal inferno.
He has said “I will never lose the true facts.”
She has said, “I will never abandon my corners ”
Music drifts to hell.
Where will they go in the silence that follows?
The gold thread holding
Is fraying like my personality.
I put my star-spangled mouth
On my husband’s face
with no aim.
His breath cascades over my
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
Calligraphy of rain,
Gentle messages stolen from a cloud,
A mother sacrificing her life
For future generations of mothers.
Spilling overtures of relief go door to door
To every blade of wheat.
Only the scavengers will go hungry this year
It rains on desert,
The jagged rocks crusted
With love letters to Dante.
He had the levels of hell all wrong.
There is so much dancing,
But the music is atonal,
And pestilence bores holes through
The dancers’ feet.
Hell is a life if obligator dancing.
Two invisible legs of glass. Six yellow as yolk. Fiberglass hairs. Flippant fangs.
The house does not stop running. In my snare drum diagram, it indicates a problem with things that don’t make a sound.
He’s crawling into your purse…
…waiting for a train
Rolling a die
On the brink
…on the tracks
Dust of the less fortunate
Someone waits for him
There are salty crimes
To be answered for
he slips into the sun