I see too much
Tiny details into the fray
It frightens
Not me, but you
And what I view
Beyond your screen
Some hypnotic wall
Your foggy countenance
Deceives the herd
As they follow the piper
Though I lingered
On the periphery
Some visions were concealed
By your obscurity
Unveiling becomes obsession
Then I regret
For now
I see too much

I never realized
How easy it could be
To lose yourself-

I stopped taking time for myself,
Gave myself to others,
Piece by piece.

Every time I put the puzzle back together,
Another piece was missing.
Or perhaps stolen.

One day I will no longer exist.

unknown entities
snatched from their liminal space
into binary

lady of steel gaze:
let me learn your native tongue,
iron-clad and cold

Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.

Dewdrops on the grass
Shudder in the new sun
as they disappear

Do you ever think
of a poem
that's amazing

and you're sure you'll remember
to write it down

but you won't

You, and you, and I
We make up every possibility
For normal, weird, and wierder

But things are never that neat, I suppose
Because normal's got a stranger side
And weird could be faking

I've always said we make the whole set
But each day I believe it less, and less
Because I no longer believe in the power of three

Two has always been luckier for me

Spring, cherished maiden ambivalent:
three parts rain, one part intemp'rate sun.
Show sympathy for clouded, rueful weather -
and let her weep 'til she, at last, is done

for there is no permanence in her grief.
She's winter's lover, moreso summer's child:
clutching daisy chains like bespoke rosaries,
new petalled life retrieves her golden smile.