Love Letter

Amaranth, on my back, off

the edge of life.
Dangling cords fall
like snakes, I hanged them
there to dry
me out. With you,

it is cold.
I can’t say that. I miss you,
but I do not. Have you
been tempted to rip her
skin off and put mine on?

My back is off
the edge, now
life is seeping through
my toes, amaranth
dangling, a love letter

for you.

Hot For War

I’m not so angry after all
this time, he smells like honey, hot roasting in the damp evening. 
His carpet moves like the sea. I might be breathing, but he’s not. 
His blood is worn out in deep veins, his secret time is up. 
I am not angry this time, he positions himself for love and I watch,
jammed with battle fever, I am hot for war. 
A soldier holds no fear, and there is no time to speak.
He engraves himself with yesterday and I wear him next to my heart.
I am not angry after all
this time. His blood dries up and my ache fades. 
We are both permanent in a temporary place. 

Departure

Some eyes open like black holes,
gravitationally throwing memorial stones through a moment,

letting time break a silence that lingers in every muscle,
every finger tip
for a soft crash of acknowledgment.

Other eyes move like flat lines and we must guess. Ache drips from our palms like candle wax, hot with the stench of regret
and blame.

I remember the first taste of his
time, brutal pine in November’s icy driveway. I know his eyes opened
to our flavor together,

but now he walks in such a quick
rush; as if the Earth might split without eating him up

and he talks,
like voices do
when they should,

but not one blink wrinkles,
or speaks,
or loves.

Like They Are In Love

I have magazine images in a black book,
of brides
and cakes
and a mad hatter wedding.

Orange has become a pattern. I follow it,
on to the pavement laid
over a four-tier that I chose.

And has it come to be?
Has this compact icing eaten
away a beautiful day?

I have hoarded slice after slice
from red weddings
and pink weddings
and green weddings, that I never want to attend.
I stuffed them under pillowcases,
in closets,
under my un-kept single bed,

meant to be pulled out on a day when
buttercream will whisper at me about
the way I should dance,
like I am in love,
like I know how to make four-tiers
come alive with
lilies and
lime.

I will pull the slices out
with white diamond
shoes, but by then, I am afraid,
my legs will not remember
how to move like they are in love.

Bennie and I

Brought white blossoms,
He did, on curved gravel
roads that stood well.

I couldn’t hear him.
I was riding Bennie, my pale habit.
My powder pastry mixing with me
like toxic nasal drip. I picked up my feet,
Bennie lifted me up, up, up.
We were deep in azure film,
scraping the sky for nothing.

He stayed with His ignorant box of diamonds,
level grounded,
staunchly fixed on my weightless finger.

Benny pulled me.
We floated to the tops of stars.
We floated to the top of dark.
We floated too far,

into the “too dark”.
Bennie was lost.
My ghost!
My shadow, swallowed
by infinity.

That’s when the buried corners came,
with hard-boned smiles and
broken teeth,
thin skinny, barely protection!
They came hard. Shattering moon windows,
bursting starlight.
They came for me!

I tried to scream but I was dry.
They picked at me.
They grabbed.
They reached through me,
straight through my green guts,
where Bennie was.
Hiding.

They shook,
shook,
shook,
trying to shake me off him.
They scrambled everything inside me.

Then, I fell.
Out of the stars. Out of the dark.
Back to the dirt where He was waiting
with a quiet ring, bent knee.
I did not know him.
I could not know him.
The buried corners
didn’t shake him out, but
they took my brain and
put the dark in its place.

Now, while my days sleep elsewhere,
He waits.

November Legs

I have not felt my legs in four years.
I hate months. Each carries different
demons. November is a home-wrecker.
Prancing in lives
like a horse,
with a horse,
trampling my legs,
shattering a fragile life.

He went with the moon.
A silver carriage
whisking him into the night.
I laid on the floor in
a broken heap. Expecting.

A cloud came in and took his place.
Pouring sharp gulp after gulp.

Until, questions came.
Until the bugs crawled through
my nostrils,
dragging hallucinations behind them
on chains.

I loved them. For a moment,
I loved them. But their names changed.
On a basis.
We went infrared together.
Having seizures and one night stands.
Dancing black dances.
Taxi after taxi. Until,

the cloud cleared. Left me like he did.
November was not anymore,
and still I cannot feel my legs.

The Wedding

Undercover
whispers about size
and
the rice.
What will we do with the rice?

Crowded family ties.
Lines of sweaty
palms
caked with
white rice flakes.

My stems, baked
in
sun beams, waiting
for a gleam of
approval.

Shape came easy.
Like he did.
Before and
after the rice.

Fruit Family

Some children have spiders in their
brains, pressing buttons at bedtime,
stopping nightmares,
praising mothers.

Other children have tapeworms.
Cynical parasites eating
juvenile appetites and vertebrae.

These children,
my children, come from
fertile plums and pears.
Summer fruit preparing
for decomposition at summer’s end.
As  time goes, so skin shrivels,
hardens,
plump curdles into plush and seeds
become fossils.

A fossil will not suck nutrients from dirt,
as it should,
as parasites do,
from Summer children.

These children prepare for
ripening. Drunk swans arrive in spring
suits,
mild pink bakery sleeps
through exchange
while a Summer child
tosses rotting
petals.

These children sit, arthritic,
decomposing. Smiling at
baby ripe fruit family.
Seeds,
fruits with  tapeworm scorn
creating  fossils for family to mourn.

If It Wasn’t For The Bees

No water. Small village.
All these thirsty blossoms.
Orange.

Yellow.
Weak bushes in hushed soil.

We lulled them by Lilac,
with two eyelids. Puffed.
Purple.
Bruised by honey makers,
swollen from fresh stings.

If it wasn’t for the bees!
If it wasn’t for the bees!

Glass jars come, mocking.
Scarves glaring
from
thin, glass necks.
Metal heads reflecting
time.

Sun time.
September,

this will be me. Smiling.
Displaying flowers.
Preparing honey jars
for guests.

Devil Bruise

I gave my husband bruises to
plaster me with.
Bare boned, I have pleaded with
double edged devils
to spare me from
fingers engulfed in flame.

But, the fire comes. Twisting
my insides out, wringing
leftover drops
of love
out,
to drip down drains,
to suffocate.

Permeation takes place. Fresh
becomes stale,
gross.

Like wedding cake.
Like a bride’s bouquet.

Like stiff shoulders daring a
husband to come close.