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.

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.

The Orange Hatter

She is the orange hatter. Holding
orange rose blossoms
against black lace.
Bride marrying
a fish;
a plaid, handsome fish.

He watches her walk,
holds stern hands together,
to keep
from touching
a brunette flower in gold trim.

She is beautiful, the flower, with
agony’s gaze.
With child.
Matching orange bouquets with the bride.

Flushed in the background,
a lemon princess smiles.
Throwing innocence on
holy ground. The only
child left.

Left by Mother, (un-photographed),
because
Mother had no bouquet, just
a bastard lemon child
in a basket,
in July.

July has taken more lemons than
given. From dumpsters.
From wombs.

Some, children of children.
Some, children of
addicts,
victims,
shame.

Some, children of a flower in
Gold trim, holding on to a matching
bouquet
of a Bride.

Perfect, Perfect, June 9

June 9.

A day that every other day
wants to be.

A day that wears snowball robes
among
daffodil trimmed
avenues,

singing a knot-tie
ditty that
clanks
with balls hooked
to short,
short
chains.

A day frosted with
pockets full
of posy,

cakes layered
with ashes
and
ashes,

dances,
twirls,
smiles,

until Bride and
groom
both fall
down.

6 years pester at them.

Knock, Knock, Knocking
on their skin, crawls
under epidermal
rugs

where it reaches up,
plucks at arm hair
follicles
one
by
one

creating a trail of annoyance
on
loving arms.

The pester years
crawl throughout
their underlying
crust,
burrowing themselves
deep
within,
until old Bride and
old Groom
fall down

in despair.

June 9 approaches.

A day that no other day wants
to be.

A day that wears soiled
tablecloths among
champagne
crashes,

singing a thunder
roar
lullaby to
heart shackles
that
clank, in pieces,
together.

A day full of
frozen hands stuffed
in pockets caked

with
ashes and ashes
of the past,

aches,
pains,
tears,

until Bride
and Groom
both fall down

in surrender.

The Wedding

White dress
white cake
white people
surrender to social
“norms”

“norms” slither like rotten
worms through
white cake
creating tunnels to
loveless
bites of
artificial sugar

my sister, “the prude”
stands with me, “the slut”
introduced

shake heads at
shake hands with
“your new dad”

 His white body stands
atop the white
cake
next to the white dressed
Monster

her claws sunk deep into
his spine

vows were stolen from
Once Upon A Time
a normal dance
a normal kiss
family glides in
out
Congratulations!

An artificial prude
a drunken slut
remain –
photographer is
late

a successful wedding night
later
white
man atop the cake
is stripped of a healthy spine –

collapses under
a perverse
white Monster,
his wife