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We will weather
The lightning of fists
The thunder of words
The rain of tears

We will survive
The war of love
The wounds of him
The blood of her

We will withstand
The sea of hate
The tides of battle
The wave of emotions

We will become
The voice of reason
The song of safety
The music of freedom
Though I dream of sleeping beside you,
The dream is even greater,
To wake up
In the morning
With you by my side
And know that you stayed
By my flesh and bones
All through the night.
There are days I know I am alive
only because I feel the weight on my
feet as I rise to have a new day accept me.
It  is when I read  poems of Louise Gluck or
Sharon Olds that I realize I am merely one half

living.
Be wary of men who say your eyes are those of
morning poppy blossoms because they only
want to eat pizza with you, take you to bed,
have you diaper their babies, scour the sink,
paint the bathroom, wash their socks
                               and
when they are old and brains knitted
with dementia, you will walk them
to the toilet and lead them
to ****. This is mostly
truth.
I’ve born four children, one still dead
another taken by 11th-week aspiration,
proves I'm randy enough for most.

Salt of the earth rural and *****,
looking for time with a man
who’s skinny or capable.

I’ve impatient hips; show me
which one you claim.
She is searching for good eggplants,
me, a bundle of  decent radishes
and an avocado.

She’s been eating licorice
or chocolate; her lips
are ringed dark.

I smile at the contrast between
her pale skin and licorice or
chocolate, she looks up,

bemused; similar to the way
you would respond if seeing
a calico in a fall pear tree.

We look at one another
for two seconds or so;
I figure me no good,

and leave.
I like poems that smell of milk
that is about to curdle. Not with
enough bacteria to **** you, but
enough to make you wince
and heave. Spoiled
sufficiency you

want to apologize to God
or at least explain every
despicable thing you
knew of and did not

stop.
As a boy growing up in rural Iowa
I thought love was curve of neck,
tone of voice, hang of breast,
thick of hair, length of step,
temperature of hand, hue
of skin, size of soul;
I still think so.
I'm finding replicas of you in my insomnia
Smoke pouring from my nose
A manifestation of self destruction

The fear of death playing my lover
Sleeping on my bed sheets in my place
There is no shelf for my carousel thoughts
Heart of alternating magnetic poles

The quiet and the noise of night
Condradictons becoming rule of life
Forgetting how to breathe
But still remebring you in this insomnia
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