valentine's day song, sung softly

Clamped in the

webbing between her fingers it

slept: love swollen in

the open sky, a quiet beetle

nestled in the clouds.

Valentines day was like this

for him, brow furrowed,

he stamped his declaration onto

her mind with prominent syllables

and an unwavering voice:

Why don't single people get

a special day? he asked, his

hand weaving like an air plane

in the sky.

Because every day is a special

day for singles.

The words stung like an ex-lover

biting his shoulder too rough.

No, because every day is just

another day, he lamented, eyes

bulged like uneaten grapes that

she wished to carry in her purse-

swaddled with leather,

carrying them as if they were her

 life: a malignant tumor,

dual organs mummified.

Petals deprived of moisture when

pressed in the mouth of a heavy book-

the only trophies she snared.

Outside of her eyes' grasp the

tree limbs swayed like hippy

dancers drenched in alcohol.

To be hollowed, scooped out,

as vacuous as eagle bones.

Bruise

II.

Photograph of an eye: swollen

like overweight blackberries

and ripe with blood.

All you see is the bruise,

not its cause.

The tender skin surrounding is

as feathery as powder, hinged

with unreliable sutures.

If love is a fist in the hollow of your eye

then hate is a white glove

you cannot remove,

the worn fabric soaked with

a juice only you can herd,

only if protected by an armor of skin.

Leik

At twelve she felt language,

bones cold. The snow was

yellowed like

mashed potatoes and soft too.

This time anything could

leave her: a missing pen cap,

a snagged finger. Her alphabet

was lost, letter by letter, so

we all tried to lend her

a new language- not to keep,

but to borrow,

a phonetic system on loan.

But, eventually, she became

a fossil we had to relinquish:

our soot-coated dinosaur egg

now in a slippery grip,

her face eclipsed by an

arm, an iceberg:

our favorite delinquent.

Indiana family killed after tree falls on car, baby survives.

In death we are all the same.

The tree trunk crushing their car

(a wooshing of freshly dead leaves and

silently rotting bark: rings that

document life unexpectedly sliced),

is not how we expect it to go.  However,

once dead, the cause doesn’t matter.

There must be a balance; some ordinary,

some not, giving the lone baby breathing

room to cry.

Sentencing a Sonnet

A safe room has walls which sever outside

from in, our skin warm in surrounding heat.

But these walls press me, there's nowhere to hide.

Plaster crushes and invades my bones, heat

scalds flesh, a bubbling of burnt skin and hands

that wrap around my neck, knuckles chalk white,

my fists bound behind my back in tight bands.

My muscles are weak, I can't keep a fight.

Each quatrain sections off lands, gardens lush

with vegetation,  tic tac toe tables,

a quilt with squares covered in a red plush.

My legs are tired and I'm unable

to send this sonnet off to death row, to

cram it into a cell without a view.

Mother

Water wanted to swallow my

Children before I could.

It’s haunting how water wears

A tight skin like a bubble’s, a dress

Of saran wrap. How

Rivers in the winter look agitated,

Blue faced, and waves

Like thumbprints smeared

By preschoolers. How

Water can cleanse wounds.  How

Water was thirsty for my

Children.  I had to feed it.

To desecrate before they were desecrated:

Their lives shortened like limbs severed

After gangrene.

Untitled

With a tattered notebook he slumps down on a concrete bench.  She will be here soon.  He looks for her beyond the apple blossoms.  There she is- but it is not her; it is his ex.  He opens the notebook, scribbles: I love it when containers run out- shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, laundry detergent- the joy of buying new ones, feeling the newness on your clothes, your body. 

She speaks.  He grins, closing his notebook.    

He makes a point to grab her hand and tell her how beautiful she is they walk by his ex, he ignoring her dark eyes.

Tableau 

1.

Sticking his head out of the window

he feels the cool wind knot his hair. An

approaching turn pike with a

green-lettered inscription

grabs his attention: “Trust in Jesus.”

He looks at her from the corner

of his eye.  Her fingers grip the

steering wheel as her eyes remain

fixated on the road.

2.

The man stands ringing

a bell.  In front of him a bucket

takes donations from giving

and indifferent people.  “It’s for

the children,” he says.

As a boy and girl

approach he begins singing,

“Holy Jesus, Jesus is sweet.”

3.

She fingers the rectangular box, asks,

“How much money do you have?”

He searches his pockets and pulls out

A ten dollar bill.

“Okay”, she says solemnly

accepting the bill, “this should be enough.”

4.

A woman feeds the bucket three quarters. 

She positions the baby on her hip

and lumbers off.  The man is still ringing

his bell as the boy and girl emerge

from the automatic door, a blue bag in

the girl’s fist.

5

“Wouldn’t you hate that job?”

“Yeah.”

She rummages through her

purse in a half-assed attempt

to find a few pennies, even

though she knows there are

none.  Sauntering past,

the man says, “your money

helps at risk adolescents with

drug prevention programs.”

They both avoid eye contact

as the bell clamors in their ears.

6.

The air has warmed but the

wind still tangles his hair.

She has lit a cigarette and

her arm drapes gracefully

out of the car window.

He glances in the rearview

mirror as they pass the turn

pike.  Underneath “Trust

in Jesus” someone has spray

painted “We never would have

thought of that.”

He snorts, then frowns at

the plastic bag at his feet.

If Jason were alive today

I would take him to the

cemetery with graves staggered

like crooked teeth

and the moist ground as

lumpy as cellulite.

With his hand firmly in my

grasp we would graze,

both of us cows to

be milked,

to be butchered.

On the top of the hill where

there is a clear view of the

river I would stop and look down.

You could have lived here-

I would say, my finger pointing

like a cigarette being snuffed out-

The earth would swallow you

and have indigestion.

And then we would laugh,

his eyes shining like glossy

photographs in the light,

his mouth pink inside and

his hair Swedish blonde

like he's from Minnesota and

says his words funny.

But then I remember the gun,

the obituary, the casual "oh, I

think he shot himself in the head,"

Robbie said during our lunch hour,

and I’m triggered back into

what I would love to

touch w/ a creased palm:

to evacuate all graveyards

and convert them into

the backseat of your car

at the drive-in theater.