that porcelain face with spider
legs in black mascara they'd dance
like Mati Hari wearing a crimson
sari. Hazel colored iris scream

from all they've seen. They've held
back a river with honey glazed
ham. Stuck to their shell like a razor-
shell clam. Frosted cornflower

shadow is painted over the
lid. Curtained in bangs of ink pasta
squid swishing back and
forth like windshield wipers. Nose

blowing gunk out like winded
bagpipers. Or if they were sewn
tight with needle and thread she'd lay
them to rest like an indigo spread.

off like a barbie doll
and don another, a sister
or a long-lost brother to fit
the scene I'd make

the silver screen. But My head's
so tight, wearing the bathroom
towel.  I cannot rotate it like
an old barn owl. If I spin it

like a weathervane, it’d
spill out all this pain. My head's
a stuffed Thanksgiving
turkey. But I'm not swimming

in the gravy. It's so heavy
sitting on my neck. I putter
around like 65 Chevy car
wreck. My head's a fishbowl

filled with dead fish. When I walk
I swish. Or I'll get it chopped
off like Anne Boleyn. Place it
on a dish served to the king.

speeding on the track. Once
it starts there's no turning
back. It's a kettle of
bubbling screams. It whistles

pain in sweating hot
steam. It’s lightning hurling
its bolts between clouds
and ground. But today

it didn't make a sound. It pitter
pattered like toddler feet, stumbling
between fits of sleep. Drinking it
down with moonshine last night,

till the throat was burning and
chest tight. It's a warrior badge
pinned to the breast. A scrawny
lion that feeds without rest.

lie. They curl up like
a sleeping cat into a smile
when she's sad. She speaks
like she's not had a broken

heart. She colors them cherry
blossom. But when she’s with me
she plays possum. Her eyes drip
in crimson watercolors, a bleeding

sky, running into the river. She's a
splinter, a sliver of the woman
she was.  Painting starry nights
blazing through a violet sealed

off maze. And when I kiss her
she’s not kissing me. Her lips are
like rubbing up against the bark
of a tree. And there's no heat.

are fickle. They tickle
my mind. They're cornflower
blue. Running like a watercolor
in the rain, then connecting

together like links
on a chain. They bring me
back to strawberry fields
where life isn't real. And they

steal my hours picking
them like flowers for my dining
room table.  I bunch them
all together like a painting

of a sunset. And they collect,
a debt I haven't paid. They keep
growing. I'm living in the shade of
them. Sewn onto the edge,

my hem. Pebbles in my shoes I can’t
shake loose. I walk at night. Floorboards
creek and the moon speaks to turn
off the gaslight.

past the nose and
lips? Jump down
to my ******* and
hips? Marvel at

my long legs? Am I
a projection, like an image
on a movie screen lying
flat in ripped blue jeans? I'm a

matchbox cover, a work of
art with a striking surface,
a pin-up doll that can light
a furnace. But so small  

I get lost when you
toss me in your drawer
with notebooks, gadgets
and receipts from the store.

in the mirror? She walks
nearer to the glass. But doesn't
look. In fear she'll pass. Wrinkles
replace the pimples on her face. Hair,

gray as a squirrel. She can’t get up
fast, like she’s had an epidural. Her waist
is spread like a jellyroll or a loaf of
bread. Her *******, flat as crepes. What

happened to her milky *****,
the one that fed both her children? Lips
are thin and pale. Nails are short and
cracked. She’s packed on the pounds over

the years. Her eyes are water wells
collecting her tears. The circles under them
are dark as moons. Her stomach is a hot air
balloon on fire making sounds like a screeching tire.