“Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.”
E. M. Forster

There was no spoon feeding life to me,
gentle nibbles from a mind set on
sugar coating there would be more
days of blackberry thorned hours than sweet pudding.

How does one speak of horror
to a child who trusts fairytales
grow reality from glittered imaginations?

I learned so very young monsters
don’t leave when a storybook presses
them between its pages…They stalk you
at dinner tables, in empty rooms,
within the sound of voices oblivious
to screams trapped in the cage of your throat.

In the oddity of breathing terror circumstances turned
me comedian, precocious child full of questions,
a crybaby at scratches while silent in the clutches
of a demon.

In the etiquette of spoons never judge
the one who doesn’t hold it correctly.
She may be a survivor who’d rather
eat the soup than explain why she
doesn’t have an affinity for shallow silver.

My voice slipped out as I slept,
taking the path between rows of white narcissus
to the upturned boat, just port side and starboard side,
no deck, no keel, with the world below and beyond.

It had normally slept in the blanket of my throat,
silent, cupped in a chrysalis.
Now it went up and down upon the earth
filterless, making many enemies, there when I awoke.

I hid my voice inside a bell, but it was only louder.
I stuffed it in the pages of a newspaper, but caged birds repeated everything.
I set it in the hands of my lover, and my lover left, cursing.
I hid it in the sound hole of a guitar and it spoke in every language.

I taught it manners and it died of boredom.
I taught it doublespeak and it ran for high office.
I taught it sanctimony and it attracted a congregation.
I taught it flattery and it was beloved.

Desperate, I taught it poetry and it lay down again in my throat
where my bones fell in love with it.
A doctor diagnosed the shaking as palsy
and prescribed a pilgrimage to Branson or Las Vegas.

I may seem stoic in this new situation
and for a while I was fine
then it hit me like a truck
my heart was the only casualty
tears threatened to spill
but I kept them at bay
I'm an adult
but I'll always miss my parents
I just want to hug them goodnight
but 2 and a half hours of driving separate us
I may seem stoic in this new situation
but on the inside my heart aches for them
stoicism is just a mask for the internal havoc of emotions

The sidewalk is a valley of strangers
where eye contact feels like
an act of courage, and a smile
is too fragile to break anonymity’s spell.

They sit beneath the moon
in their newborn love
and spoon-fed dreams.

There’s magic in innocence
that is both a promise, and
a suitcase of unopened wounds.

His toothpaste left uncapped,
and her hairbrush abandoned
on his pillow are smiles
that have not yet become
the war of the roses.

There is no map for the future,
only forever spoken from lips
not yet bruised by reality.

I feel ancient with my weight of years,
sacrifices, grief, humor, loss, and love
broken in like uncomfortable shoes.

I hear them call through a screen window
to come sit with them…
With a sigh I step out the door,
and walk out into moonlight
that one night will shine through a curtain
on two innocents who discover the
lock on the suitcase is broken.

I am more than a dress,
a blues song you clothe me in
so your darkness won’t feel
as heavy as your tongue.

Where there’s bone there’s wings.
I can fly a sky of notes you can’t write
because freedom is a place in me
you can’t find.

Will and weather, cloud and feather,
what you think you hold isn’t even in your hands.
This black and blue bird is a sister of crows.
When the spirit says go, a ****** will grow.