Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Heritage of Ashes

Once upon a time, there were two little girls who had little curls right in the middle of their foreheads, past their shoulders, streaming down their backs.

Once upon a time, but that was then, this is now and the birds took the curls to insulate their nests and make them beautiful for the baby birdies,

So the little girls wore wigs of blue and orange and green and red.

Except when they didn't, when their bald heads got too hot or itchy or they wanted to make a fashion statement of some sort or other or they just didn't feel like it anymore.

The little girls grew up to be just like their mommy with long necks and sloping shoulders from too much grief and jutting hip bones where the fat melted away, Holocaust thin.

Just alike.

Except one little girl had deep shadows between the breasts the doctors built and the other had just one, she didn't care if she was lopsided because to her it was a truth not stranger than the fiction of her sister's perky, youthful-for-eternity, what will the archaeologists of the future say about the silicone sacks nestled on her ribs, tits.

Once upon a time, a BRCA1 gene was passed down...

Crowns and Kings

He'd worked on the molding for months, selecting the trims, miter box, glues, stains, prepping the walls and joins, measuring twice and cutting once. His deft fingers slid the last few pieces into place as smoothly as they'd once slid into her.

Standing in the empty doorframe, empty despite having lived there for over two years, empty despite her entreaties for a door, a door with a proper latch so they could shut the world away for a few hours, empty because it wasn't a priority for him, not like the molding or the wainscoting or the inlaid parquet flooring, empty because it just never got done. She wondered why he bothered wearing the gold band on his fourth finger where it sometimes snagged nails, springs, wiring and long ago, her flesh.

He leaned back, tilted his head to check the alignment of the trim and nodded, pleased with his handiwork. "Look, honey, the trim's done. Could you get me the sealant? It'll save me having to climb up and down. Honey? Please? Honey?" But the only answer to his entreaties was silence.


I want to see you
fall down mountains, climb valleys
simply being you.


Fingers down the throat
He vomits dreams, wants to lose
one more pound. Just one.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Welcome Home, Love

May 18, 1993 at 2:18 am Emily Alexis

June 17,2009 at 10:15 am Luke David

Welcome to the world, sweetheart.

Shards of Glass

Walking on shards of glass
walking to the end of the world
the end of all worlds, end of time, end of ends.
Walk on broken feet, lacerated flesh, bloody stumps on naked bone
and then crawl on flayed knees, shredded hands, suicide wrists, supoku belly
inch by inch, go on until you stop.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Size 5-1/4

My fingers are bare.
Last ring, one I gave myself, passed on, leaving a sun mark
other ring marks faded, the callous of my wedding band long gone
only ring left, a toe ring given by my three year old, to hold while she used a Phillips head
so long ago my flesh has grown over it, sealing it to my foot
I wear gloves to cover my nakedness.


Full moon shadows me
Ride the stairs, spin, spray mud. Joy.
Gear up, climb the light

Connections Lost and Found

You never forget what you were doing
forget date, time, place, even actual event
but the personal peripheral brands into synapses, distorts them
I thought I was in love
when the Challenger exploded, raining microscopic debris
Mt. St. Helens ashes
Martin gunpowder
Treblinka dust
I thought I was in love, standing there, trying to catch snowflakes on my tongue
but they were soap bubbles, sour on my palate.

Tic tic tic

Eight thirty-seven
Plane so close. Why? That's not right
Still coming in. It's

Time Bandit

If I could capture color or time or anything at all, anything
every bucket is a sieve, tighter mesh, faster gone.
If I could hold just one thing, a shadow, hint
fences trap the outside out
If I could remember something, one true thing, before it left me
I'd blow the sands of hope from my palm to join dandelion spores as they spiral away.