The Passage

The dragon doesn’t wake with the sun.  It is warmed
through mock light, on an affected cove.  It looks
like it could be made of mopani,
but he cannot tell colors
what they should be
and what they are not.

I left him a note, this morning, by his glass house.
In his rest, he inhaled the pushed warm air
that circulates my blood each night.
I promised him Aspen and Cabbage and
my return.

I am late.  I am always pushing the clock
into my lungs, back to my cycle,
back to little hands and little
feet swirling around
a glass house,
tearing cabbage for a dragon that
constantly stares at me.

What I Am And What I Should Be

I was 26 when I became a rope,
stretched from loud brown cocktails to
the hush of burnt oven mits.

I was too thin to be stepped on,
so I just laid,
spread, fine butter for
Homemade Bread Men.

I went on as rope for two years,
reaching both ends of
limit. Ginger snaps
snapped back at me when
I raised a mother’s hand.
A trained ham clamming up, shaking
during the Spirits Earthquake.

I baked them by the dozen,
hard bread snaps to
braid me when I was bad.
Two years rowed its boat swiftly
and now
here I am.

A rope.
Spread thin over aging.
Frayed ends begging to be stayed.
They will not.
Time can not allow it, but time
will be easy on
middle belly.
Center ground.
That is what I should be.

ZombieBleach.

Rid these monsters of reflection.
Mirrors are vomiting
bleach blonde
bitches.

Pretty, vapid
chlorine
burns evidence of authenticity.

Keep their unsightly roots away!
I have grown my garden of
validity
over years of exiguous soil. Chemicals
will kill me.

Lost? Indeed! On every climate,
heads over porcelain, hoping
to
heave in that enamel gloss,
they export
beauty with unique finger tips;

to be a reflection
of another one,
somewhere!