His seasons

and her pause, like the edge
of autumn’s breathing, when she feels
the freeze will come
and all that dry hope is piled
neatly at the curb.
Because she knows it,
the sudden storms,
the way he shakes the house, how
she hears the rumble
and starts to count. Knows
she no longer asks herself
which is worse,

the peeling and the glare,
the burn of constant exposure
or
the grey damp silence
reaching bone.

How she’ll still put on
her floral dress, pockets
ripped away, and water
her salted garden.

Cement

I want to lie down, melt
into the rough grey cement
of the supermarket sidewalk.
There between the hardened wads of bubble gum
and the fluorescent trickles of dog urine
I will reside, singing blithely
with the shopping carts squealing
like piglets at the slaughter.
Cooled by the heavenly shade
of the newspaper machines and the super bounce balls,
both offering more than they can deliver,
I will stretch out and accept my fate.
All this,
not to once again face the bubbling asphalt sea
with my battered vessel,
and return to you.

I dare you

to love me,
me with the needy eyes and the untamed hair,
your forget-me-nots slowly dying on the sill.
The sun slips through the littered room exposing
half-read books, half-bitten nails and there I am
hoping you’ll embrace the crumpled sheets
and crumbs.

Though my ears are filled with siren song
and my mouth spews wildfire, my nimble fingers
could make daisy chains with your body
if I just learned to sit still.
And I would swallow constellations, dot
the stars along your hairline and dance
in Taurus’ obliging twinkle.

But then
there are those long pauses waiting
to breathe, my weakness lying around us
like scorched earth, just to see if you’ll jump.
And there’s so little left that doesn’t ache
that I dare you
to find me
before I turn to ash.

Neuroplasticity

When once-rejected yearning circles back
Like light that reaches from a now dead star
You thought your mind had well erased that track
When once-rejected yearning circles back
And finds you craving things that left you slack
A moment’s dopamine can leave a scar
When once-rejected yearning circles back
Like light that reaches from a now dead star

Death by Annoyance

A sock
isn‘t enough
to make me loathe
his breathing
at night,
I know.
Grey and lazy
near, but not in,
the hamper
it lies alongside
his intermittent gases
and his shouts
of ‘Ha! I knew it!’
at CSI reruns.

Perhaps
the monotony
of his underarm
scratch-and-sniff
or the inevitable
toilet seat flight
gives rise to this,
what could almost be
passion- this urge
to pick up the sock
and stuff it in
his sleeping mouth
with just a pinch
on his bulbous nose
to relish the sweet
silence.

Tooth Fairy

And you tell yourself that
she’s learned the secret,
the piggy bank’s promise
of nows not spent, or that
her simple pleasures grow
more costly and it is only right.
And yet it’s you
who’s learned the value
of a finite set, of milk breath,
of white magic placed under a pillow,
and each time leave a little bit more,
linger at the bedside holding
the last piece.

Blindsided

and, of course,
not,
since you saw it coming-
his shoulder curving away
towards the paper on Sundays,
how it was always your tongue
pushing past his lips. And,
obviously,
not from the side, but
straight-on, a slamming
through your chest
as you stood before
the emptied-out closet
seeing nothing.

Waiting for Wolves

Goldilocks

Even I had heard the stories,
old widow’s whispers
within the market stalls
pouring warnings in our ears.
And though I’m waiting
for the moral to blur the edginess,
I long for the wolf’s coming,
just to feel my chest squeeze,
to hear myself pant.
How many times have I craved
his hot breath on my neck, hood down,
basket not yet emptied.
And no one needs to ask
what those big teeth are for, except me,
everyone’s daughter, too young
for the slice and run. Me,
always looking for a place to hide,
to rest, something that won’t burn
my tongue. They see me searching
for a chair by the hearth that fits,
while I itch to strip off
my pale skin, these golden fetters,
me, wanting to awaken
smothered in his fur.


Rupunzel

Your grey gaze is mine,
transfixing prey, a blade’s edge
sunk in softness. A song,
padding feet; our simple tools
to an end. And yes,
perhaps speed and tooth
outweigh a seemingly golden stair,
but my Black Widow friend knows
that patience is lethal,
there never running
beyond her window. Pain
is lovely. I’ve learned
to embrace the pull,
that thousands of follicles
on fire is a fair price
for a life. But you,
cur of my feral dreams,
your night rants the blur between
shadow and shade, you
who also use honeyed words
before the bleed. You whose paws
could never grasp my golden lead
to bring you to me.
If we met, would I offer up
my pallid throat for that
one brilliant scarlet moment,
or would it be you
who showed your belly,
howling for my golden collar
to keep you close
when you go lunar.


Gretel

Like you can do me worse,
all those teeth with the quick cut
so smooth I might forget to bleed.
I’ve done the dark, drowned in it
till anything that glistens
seems like sun.
And so
we might run a bit, a cursory
chase till the tumble and pounce.
There’s a sweetness to it,
that it’s all nerve and bone,
no fattening to leave bitterness
behind. And though
there’s no door to save me
with one sure shove,
as my flesh sighs, so shall I-
finally chosen, no silly second.
Not left, like yesterday’s bread
tossed.