A babies' cry is as natural as
the mushrooms uprooting--
puhpowee--
two births into the world; life made anew.

But then there is

the rush of train tracks outside the window,
or the sound of a wolf howling at the moon,
the feeling of bare feet on dewdrops,
and watching a hawk sweep down to a lagoon

Dance the tango with me.
two left feet I am spores,
two left feet I am floating

and then I crash down,
burnt paper and burnt cigarettes,
I have a cut on my face,
I have cut tulips in a vase.

I wish I could stand in a mirror and
confront what I see
feminine physique, feminine plastique
two beady little eyes staring back at me

my eyes tell stories of deceit,
my eyes tell stories of no sleep,
when I look in the mirror I don't see me but a
bare-***** woman numb in her defeat

these suicidal lullabies in rose-colored dreams
are how I say hello to the world for I am
cruelly stuck in its'
twisted seams

one day I'll drink salt water and
float out to sea
Edna Pontellier,
I am the real tease.

It was the sound of wheels
on leaves under
a cool moon,

and then it was a breeze
floating past the crowd
under the eye of a watchful loon.

It was someone choking on a cherry pit,
poison ivy on ankles,
a trip, a fall, a slip.

Of course, I remember it.
The silent night
with eyes screaming for

the pedestal of my God
fell down, crashed marble
pieces left scattered.

I looked back
to see savior turned shadow
a ghost; visage of disaster.

I blinked and he who was king
instead rose to dust,
the fool now on the throne

like paint covering up rust.
Oh Messiah,
how the mighty fell,

and yet scribbled in the ashes
left words unspoken
the remnants of passion:

Love me
Love me
Love me

I used to like the snow
because it felt like a kiss--
wet and cold.

Now, I'm not so sure
if I like the cold
because it reminds me
of sipping hot cider, apple-
scented cinnamon sugar,
delectable on the tongue. Which, then
brings me to the memory of the mint
leftover from gum on your lips,
wet and cold.

And, maybe I feel indifferent
about the cold now because
throwing up isn't so bad
when the sweat immediately cools
to a shiver down the spine.
And, it's like skeleton breath from cigarettes
feels so much better when smoking in the
wet and cold.

And, maybe now I realize
that I am at home in the snow
because the sacred geometry
of Fibonacci numbers and Mandelbrot’s
set float in the heavenly ice and they
remind me that I could never do math,
but I can at least feel
wet and cold.