Paranoid Of A Possible Love

How can I be certain that you are real?
Each day, you are a noble rider; a sterling chain
seeking my affinity.
I want to cover myself in admission
while you are
straight,
natural,
throwing butterflies. At my feet

they become Ackee centers, flying up, up, around me.
Take a bite!, you say, It is only Vanessa and her Red Wings.

Jamaica made her crazy though, and
you present her plague
to me!?
Do you mistake her as beautiful wings
or
is this MY aberration?

Jamaican fruit do not raise her
butterfly appendages and flutter
about a young,
ripe woman.  They don’t!

This is truth or it is fallacy, crossing a frying pan.
And I am preparing to cook either
butterfly
or
poisonous exotic fruit!

Sclerotic Dolls

Back to my dolls. Back to familiar,
sclerotic faces.
Mother gave me one to paint. I chose
the sea for her eyes
and
cuspidated obsidian for her mouth.

She was a fill-in.

Mother howled in on muscle pills,
red cheeked fury
steaming the air, burning my hair from
its soiled roots! My bedroom door opened
itself out of her way, scarred from past poundings.

I dove under my bed, throwing
my rock-like doll to stand as daughter.
She never turned into an
apple-polished quail. She just stood.

I laid in yellow paint under
bed frames; thick structure.
And never gave Sclerotic Doll
a name.

 

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
stockings?

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

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
climbed
back on vacillating hips, claiming
ownership,

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.

The Child Within

I promised a seven year old girl
that
sixteen years would never happen

“don’t be afraid of driving, it will never happen”

in her rancor,
she pissed off a ten
year old girl’s
silhouette –
it was a hollow
young thing
but

outlined in
potential

the young early version
stepped into her
vacancy,
thickening
throughout
the
void
angry
silhouette,

she ripened

in body,
in vocabulary,
in age.

Sweet,
sultry,
sinister,
sixteen,
finding small doors
leading to
thinned
ice,

crystal air
loaded,
ready to explode.

She picks at
glass plank
floors, pulling
strips
of her new tool.

That young one
so afraid,
timid,
playing hide-and-seek
with her
developing
womanhood!

Enough!

She clutches
on to
her
shard sticks,

carving away
at her pumpkin
arms,
her pumpkin legs,
digging her out…

that little
phobic brat,
quivering around
her
prime
poisoned internals.

I made a promise
to the little
one,

sixteen would never come,

now here she is;
butchering
my promise
and
my child.

 

This Is What Happens When A Child Raises Itself

a small child has taken camp
in my intestines

she clutches
to my innards
holding on for her
dear little life

my stomach twists
howls at me
begging for relief

but she is afraid
she will not let go

in the morning
I awaken, as I should
I suggest a shower
and dress, as I should
I advise eating
sometimes the little girl
is too afraid
squeezing so loudly
making digestion impossible
some days
I skip that part altogether

I drive
I work
I laugh
I smile

practice courtesy
compliment
understanding
patience

return back to shelter
out of the
distraction of
a
daily life

back to the voice of
a scared little child.