Little Boy

There is a leak in the Earth,
quietly letting mercy slip
out,
unnoticed.

Ashes sprout in Spring’s fresh
mouth – her lungs
blacken with ferocity,

a dark mother clouds the sky
of an innocent,
a soft snow lays silent,
begging the earth to warm;
a quick suicide.

Her arms cradle his delicate
voice, she is moon craters
and crackling fire embers,
an Earth of her own.

Heavy waves of blood crash through
a golden heart,
blue eyes sicken and he cries.

Her own waves say goodbye –
and the Earth opens one more time.

Old Memories Of Paris, Café Au Latte

Old memories of Paris, café au latte,
iron wrought on a kitchen sink
where she slimmed her figure
on a butcher block.

She dangled like a wind chime,
toes on pointe,
testing the winds and
the Gods on
Wisdom of Love.

Pretty little music box, my doll,
bathing in sunlight
through reflections of The Tower at
dawn. I asked her what she saw.

Her answer was as black as a widow
living off space between sun flower seeds.
I turned to her soul and spoke
to her in cotton,
she understood,
souls always understand what is next,
and why.
I led her to confession.

She rattled all the way,
dangling eight unworthy legs –
shooting silk like
it meant nothing,
because that is all she had ever known.

By sunset, she had dried up.
Everything that she had devoured
had taken over
and spit her spirit out.

Against Time

Dear Young Man,

I saw your skin smooth like the fountain of youth,
pouring down your river,
your delicate body of water.

Your body is a peach,
ripening,
a firm seed planted in your centre,
ready to harvest in the soil of fertility.

I once took your age and manipulated it.
My skin was an innocent organ,
but my mind played ignorant instruments
and I danced to drums,
too drunk to
notice hands like yours, trembling
down my back side,
searching for my treasure.

I was a golden egg, cracking over a camp fire,
cooking from the inside, out,  flirting
with the fruit of the Earth,

and now, Young Man, I feel naivety drip from
your skin, mixing with my worn complexion as
I grind against your skin,
searching for your core,
going back,
back ward in time.

It Isn’t Just Injurious To Me

Each morning is a petal plucked
from precious
time.
Bright red petals painted in
fear, planted
right
side up. In sick sand,
death gardens
grow
thieves with love leaves,
drowned in
injury.

Each morning, I am a thief
taking,
taking,
taking,

one more petal,
one more bright red fear,

plucking at love to drown it in injury.