When I ask for
the innovation, you
lob the moon.

Glass and sand
in your eyes, melt into
kisses. There was no
other way.

You cannibalize my
poems, make a statuette
and wear the pendant.

You stone a wall
of paper. Why did it
carry the names of
failed gods?

You watch the stream
of tears feeding the red
poppies about to be
slaughtered.

Hurting myself
in piecemeal to reach
your meanings.

Paradise lost-
for one day, when the makeup
goes in flames.

I will be in sea,
when the valley burns deep
and a Digambara
finds the truth.

The mob was arranged
in place. Wasps had very
thin waists, but stings
were sharp.

The smile was
venomous. You will not
live to see the slaughter.

My past is now
at my back
like the shadow
of a man
in a chain gang
picking up trash
I left in a ditch
bottles and empty
beer cans, cigarette
packs and such
stuff my supper
is made of, old bread
that tastes of regret
and thin minnow soup
my card carrying guardian
angel scoops up
from the River Styx
with a ladle made of screen
tied to two sticks
from my window
cell that I have named
the holey hell hole
so, this is all an allusion
to the 26 letters
of my self-
imposed sentence.

Her cheeks a'blooming
Fresh petals
Assuming a charm
All their own....

Flesh roses
In a flute of bone.

Her arms are strong wings
Ethereal beauty, poised
For her journey, as a
Tern is
On its long feathered flight
From the North
She wings her way

To the South
Only to meet
The arctic waste
Once more...

Yet the flesh roses never fade

For they are
frozen with tears.

Catherine Jarvis
8/19/2019