Ghost Plant

One story
up, under a roof,
under a perfect yellow moon,
I wait.
I watch oxygen expand
into greatness.

Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
from me snoring.
Oxygen starts its engine, then
shuts off again.

God grows in a cradle like a
ghost plant, a living reminder
of what is yet to be dead.

One story
below me, kids are
throwing stones.
An eye for an eye,
till war takes them both.

When tonight catches up, it will
pluck spots from the day until
we sing the song of
the crickets.
I will wait for God to grow
out of his cradle, strike a match
against conscience and finally,
rename me.

I Love Her More

She has a name hanging
in a back orchard somewhere.

Cowbells are ringing. I gave it up
like an omelet to a woman married
to perfection.

I am missing limbs for limbs,
heart for heart. Who am I to promise
life to another broken life?

Her name stands on a balance beam
between two tongues, heated tongues,
a melting puddle of ownership.
Where did she come from?
Where does she belong?

Tug-of-war. I own her more.
Someone who should have been born
is hanging in a back orchard somewhere.

I let her go. I love her more.

She Would Know

I’m hungry.
My stomache tugs at
an old fetus, belly up,
a stutter in a hot month.

I think, I would paint her
like a spring egg,
or sculpt her like a chess game
where she could be queen

and cut off the eyelids of liars,
like I.

I would give her my hands to do with
all the weapons
and my tongue to speak with
all the words

she would know that she is not a pink
fluff laying on a pillow,
she is a sharp dagger,
a soft poison,

a prowess taking life by God’s
mighty light,
she would know

if she was not an old thought,
if she was not a small white stutter
stabbed out of the clutches
of my womb

she would know.

Watermelon Seeds

I have never felt you, but I saw your beady blue
transparency in the hand of a stranger.
She drained you and the mucous,
she strained you just to have you,

and I do not know you but I feel you.
And I wonder if you are the same,
or if you are even you,

and in this mood I am careful, and thick.

I dreamed about curious habits and
watermelon seeds; slick, black beginnings
buried deep in moist protein.
I woke up, choking on raw meat, trying
to swallow your well-being.

And I have not held you, but every day
I feed you,
and water you
and let you grow,

because, although I do not know you,
I want you.

Frozen Pond

I have no room of my own. My carpet
was eaten by a vacuum with cold, blue
eyes.

It was January when kitchen plates
shattered. My diamond party,
shattered.
My calm-moon baby,
shattered.

I took her down stairs,
three times to
the snow.  We walked.

To an icy snow pond. Cold
like those eyes we left
three flights up, alone, with a balcony
and needles filled with snow.

We did not skip.
We did not hold hands.
We held breath and
walked into the pond.

I only had two hearts
because she had
one
of her own. Deep pink.
Beating on her own.

Deep.
Deeper.
Through sharp water cold.
Piercing cartilage, straight
through bone.

We gazed through crystal, an open
body,
singing laws of the nameless,
her,
freezing within me.

It is May now, plates have been cleared.
Cuts have scarred
deeper than bone. We are froze in that pond, but I have only one heart now.

I am alone.

Red Rain

Red rain pounding
glass, screeching.

Red wind
screaming with her,
muffling,
burning
red blood lips.

Red man, red
flesh hammer
ready.

Heart sounds
cracking,
red egg,
undead.
Pretty red-head
swelling.

Red rain thrashing,
glass scratching
red lungs,
junkie,
red man.

Red veins try
running
away,
dirty death streets,
stiff beds
under
red beer signs.

Sweet red eyes,
pouring catastrophe,
straight shots,
her
black out

while red man
chases
his dirty veins
through
six, endless, red feet.

Her, swollen
red egg,
bottled up in vinegar
and
a dirty,
red season,

left alone
with

her blue face,
drizzling
hints
of
of a red, red, rain.

Who Is The Empty One

The baby’s swing
swinging emptily
swinging next to me

blankly
watching the empty
swing –
back and forth
swinging steadily

the baby’s swing
swinging melodically
listening lethargically
as it swings next to me
the baby’s swing
swinging emptily

squeaking and creaking
and looking at me
watching me
sit so emptily.

An Accidental Abortion

The snow concealed the ground around me
as I reached inside and
clutched for the new
soul
flourishing.

My clutch turned into
a grip of uneasiness as the
new soul did not
reach his hand back for mine.

In a trepidation, I froze…my hand came
back to me covered
in blood….red body
fluid trickled down my leg, speckling
the snow – warming the frozen
blanket and
revealing the solid ground below.

Blood so bright in the snow, soaked brown
in the dirt. Blending the colors, ignorant to the
trace of the
part of life it just consumed.

I screamed at the ground!
How dare it soak up
the little
flourishing soul
as if it was nothing! A piece of
my very own soul!!

Not a word of gratitude or comfort from the
dirt for the forfeiture of
my nurturing body!