Aching for the past,
and all the people who are
there, just beyond reach.

No fish in my sea,
no stars in my sky, no warmth
in my night; nothing.

Washing my feet in
a river ... a bird sings a
melancholy song.

She had written this in her journal,
while she was still able to . . .

We were both 14.
I had to show him how to do it.

He had never been with
a girl before.

He barely had an hair yet, and
he was afraid to look at me.

He kissed with his lips
closed tight.

He came in an instant and
sprayed his ****** *** on my
deflowered cotton dress.

I later burned that dress
in the backyard barbecue and
saved the ashes
in a small cedar box.

Twelve years later
she would sprinkle those ashes
over her mother's grave,

a parting gift
for having played the game
so poorly.

Living in the
woods of death

rocking on a
rotting porch

staring out
into the endless night

listening to the
birds ****.

Old women with their
electric lawnmowers,
waiting to die, thinking

they're going to
meet their husbands again
somewhere up in the sky.

Somehow
I don't breathe
right.

I'm too busy
thinking
and I forget to breathe
deeply enough

And I think
that if I would just breathe deeper
my lungs would be healthier
and the cigarettes
wouldn't be so bad.

But that's just more
thinking
and I'm still not breathing
right.

When I have less
to think about
I figure I won't need to
smoke as much

But the day I stop
thinking
may very well be
the day I stop
breathing.

Just one more
no win situation.