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Diane Feb 2014
Some love can never
be destroyed
its color clings
to the backdrop
of our hearts
notes of its song
beneath a layer of paint
Diane Feb 2014
My aunt Ruth wore red hair
a deep smokers voice
and matte lipstick.
She would implore me
for a hug
at frequent family gatherings
where the women were loud
so I stayed with my dad.
One day, the women coerced me
to embrace, by scolding me
for being rude.
My young brain could not connect
my fear with her voice,
but Ruth knew. She also
knew she was dying;
you don’t say “lung cancer”
in front of the children.
If it weren’t for the voice,
I think I would have liked her  
because most people in my life
told me to go away.
A tale of two people desperately needing to know that their lives mattered.
Diane Feb 2014
Sunday morning
Light, warm and golden
One glass of wine, and Tori
Removing much more than clothing
Inhibitions, self consciousness
Falling to the floor
Dressed in empowerment  
The strength of woman
Long time family friend
Memorize my totality
Enshrouded in flesh
One morning, in May
Diane Feb 2014
There are streets and alleys
downtown Minneapolis
where force of wind
refuse me another step
lascivious, storming breezes hot,
syrupy, and summer-like,
plastered dress against bare thighs
gods of sun and moon
insist
their weight upon my body
and make love
wildly
throughout my soul
Diane Jan 2014
From whence this identity comes
Malts, hops, father’s approval  
What he holds in his arms
Is of no surprise
‘Just missing’ each other
Not likely coincidental
Star couplings, mishap earthlings
Persons never to be known
Crossed streets to  
Strange neighborhoods
Lawn games… how odd
In quiet hours on the highway
Gripping, understood, elusive and all wrong
Remembering, but more forgotten
Ring passed over luminescent waters
Love, not enigmatically magical
Autumn hues in baby fine hair
Righting the nightmares
Nothing mattered more than this.
Diane Jan 2014
An earnest, sad face standing before me
guitar in hand, at last
I hear the words of a song
written one year before, but never sung
whose score on pages had been let go
to be caught up in the wind
and played almost imperceptibly
in the rustling and swooning of tree tops
Had he said these words to me
I would have known
I would not have been buried
beneath a doubt so heavy
that I was unable to sit upright
fears and insecurities sowing seeds of destruction
aware that all our laughs and smiles
were nervously reaching, like wandering vines
grasping for a place to climb and grow
Leaving meant his feelings could not bind him
so music and lyrics were given
although he burst into tears
and could not finish its entirety
lips tremors speaking “this is not goodbye”
But I knew it was
and I was stunned. Paralyzed. In disbelief
standing barefoot in my driveway
watching his sobbing face through the windshield
without enough sorrow to make him stay
I honestly thought he could not go without me
But I was wrong, I was left
numb, a walking zombie
hearing myself speak
feeling my face smile
moving about as if I were still alive
through the changing of seasons, workdays and holidays
until gradually I belonged to my body again
For years, this remembrance hemorrhaged
with tears from a cancer ridden heart
But now I exist  
on the other side
This was another of Nat's assignments!
Diane Jan 2014
Piercing my belly button
before I passed out,
a tattoo artist told me
that piercings are ******
I am reminded of this
in my surprising discovery
that pricking one’s own finger
is also ******,
in a slightly demented,
***** sort of way
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