Winter has come and gone, and I
watch the sun through pixelated
eyes.

Gliding on mildew and
mite-pungent litter, I head for
the Old Mill Pond.

I stop to linger in the shade
of mushroom caps, watching
children collect tadpoles at the
pond's edge.

The caps rain spores that stick and
spoil my ooze—Ah, a toxicity that
bloodworms and mephitic termites
find unpalatable.

Thus, I am free to sip the
aphids gathering around me.

What good is your promise,

You've gone to time's lagoons.

We splashed in ankle surf,

And tugged a sinking kite.

What was that prayer you whispered

In twilight’s arctic desert,

Where the raging of your storms died

Beneath the August moon?

What good are your echoes,

Your shells forswore their tide pools.

Your gift of raptured pearls

Lie squandered on a winter beach.

And when you took your leave,

So thoughtless through that darkest gate.

With hammered copper on your eyes,

You spent your mother's heart.

Then led her down those dour halls,

So guiltless in her mortal shame.

To rue the sunrise of each day

And weep upon her daughter's grave.

Switch let out a doggish yelp and

Leaped to join his master. They both

Wound up in barbwire as we

Clattered down the track.

It was me who pushed Lea on the ties

And Jake, who kicked his dog and

Both of us what spooned his beans and

Smoked up his tobacco.

And then we tore Lea’s bedroll.

But there was nothing left to steal.

Cause all that he had left was a

Picture of his Ma.

For my final act of meanness, I tossed

That picture out the door then wallowed

In my discontent, cause God was

There and judged us.

And then we laid in straw corners, mewling

Over Lea’s Crooked teeth, his shuffling

Gait and his Faithful mutt. I knew that we’d

All burn in Hell.

But he'd tasked our generosity.

At fifteen, your sepulcher was nearly

complete, dear lover, slabs of immutable

granite set in place with your premonition,

with the diligence of your lovely hands, then

christened with your blood disease.

At thirty, you brought out the worst in me;

you lived then died in the places you’d

grown to despise. You tiptoed away on

stiletto heels, crossing shifting shale,

so pretty, pretty in fine silk stockings.

I wanted to bleed for you. Instead I

embrace your vapor, and the lock of your hair

you kindly left me. The years have passed,

dear lover.  Your letters have yellowed

with antiquity, yet still, I wait at your Orphean

gate, pondering our jeweled romance and the

bludgeoned rats in our cellars.

Pretty, pretty Filipina had straight hair

and a bad upbringing.

She had fertile effervescence.

She knew how to smile and talk,

and she knew how to shake it, taut like

a dodgeball.

She sketched funny pictures with her warm hands.

She liked vinyl booths, tiny bites,

sugar packets, and seedy bars.

She liked Couture and Manolo Blahniks and Sass.

She liked those things. She did.

But mostly, she liked to tie off her arm and dream.

There is a pond in my backyard.

Its waters have no sparkle,
or Koi and I fret over its mucky
bottom as it burps up fleets of
late summer algae blooms that
cling to its edges.

The creatures there would gladly
seize me; were I to misstep, skidding
on elbows into their murk, where
the snappers are large, languid,
and hell-bent on destroying me.

But how was I to know—

You see, I’d crushed their old comrade while
maneuvering that blasted truck through the
high grass in surrounding fields.

The snappers hate me no less for this admission.

Meanwhile:

The cattails sway in the breeze.

The heron steps in the shallows

The blackbirds weave their nests.

A muskrat lingers in a hole in the bank.

A rabbit crouches and shivers while

The weasel waits on its chance.

And it was six months later, I discovered
his broken shell lying pressed to the ground.

I thought it strange before realizing it was
I who’d stolen his days in the sun. I’d see
him no longer on his sunning stones.

But how was I to know—

Not to return, she left her pail

Upon the glistening sand.

Then, crashed into a mighty break,

with all its dazzling spray.

Then, hearing father's voice call out,

she hastened back for shore. But riptide

Bound, she found herself beyond the

Coral edges. Where sharks will

Glide and paint the foam far from

Beachgoers blankets while seabirds

Circled o're the fray, bearing witness to

Her summer's day.