Seven Hearts

She hang hearts. Seven of them.
Red pumps from flesh addicts,

seven of them.
Seven black suits that took her
dancing, then

to a buttoned up apartment
to unbutton
her dress.

Her white legs shook as she thread
dead chambers,
of suits
that dance and bring
red-heads night caps.

She sits. Silent tears escape while
seven men
life, dry.

To You Who Might Be My Next Lover

…and where did you meet her? On
Scottish streets? In a chic bakery?
Did she La-Dee-Dah in silk

Her name is Wife. I know about her.
Past lovers speak of
treachery. They brought her in on
ropes twisted from her
French Scarves, tied her to their clumsy

They never replaced their belts…
or their shoes! Walking on old, worn soles.
Treading cautiously, as one step might
shred a shoe at its seams.

Each lover gave me permission to
remove their dirty
belt at night, doors holding off
Wives for the night.

Morning brought them back with vengeance. As belts
back on vacillating hips, claiming

an old Wife would
strike! Agitated clouds would roll in, graying their eyes.
A former storm taking them back
to when they met her.

And she will take you away, too. Back to
dirty streets of Scotland,
to poison you
with silk stockings.


Yesterday, you were
quixotic while I
came from lazy beggars. Yesterday, I
was obedient; buttoned up from the lips
down, waiting for a king’s summon.

Then, his majesty came out, knocking
on my
sun stained door. He arrived erect,
like a statue of a king
might, speaking assertively, made
up of upper-class

I stood small. Barely reaching his knees.
Pushing myself to
abound in poise, to receive him equally.

We drew cards. When he smiled, I matched it.
When he threw wit, I caught it
in reciprocation.
I baked his boasts in cinnamon and
ate them as dessert.

By his majesty’s departure, he had
narrowed in volume.
Shrunk and blushing, he requested
as a future gift to himself.

Now, I sit with his once luxurious crown,
recalling his Utopian image that left with him

Sick Listed

The sickest pro-listers are stacked
angrily racking

clanking metal brackets,
scratching polished
hard wood.
I started with
those I

could have,
or would have….

but, I shouldn’t have.

They carried luggage weights,
pounds of spouse cake, tarnished
plates of hatred and

But,  I caved in and waited,
counted thousands of
steep old kingdoms, waiting for left finger
rings to ditch them

a needle and thread to
fix their stitches, then

their listed sickness.

Each remained, as did their
becoming anchors,
growing rancorous chain links
and brackets.

So, I stacked them
back to,
back together, tethered
by their beastly gear,

fear chewing at their insides like
grinding souvenir ply wood,

starting with those it
first bite at.