Jam smears sticky over toast
And butter three days old.
Served in halves with tea
and smokey, indifferent eyes
While the leaves float down
before steeped and bound;
you ask me quietly
Which cup is mine and which
is yours but not just which are we.

Parasitic queen dressed in gold and black,
we made love among hyacinth
tracts and the morning dew
then parted.

I’d thought it through but
venom proved stronger than
my ire as
memories of you wormed about;
your racing touch and
erasing much to finally burst
my head.

The larval feelings spun
themselves up in
little white silk
lies
And what wiggles out,
though formed and fed
off my mind and husk,
Resembles you, winged
and rue
hungry for a meal anew.

We held our mother’s funeral today
out back in the warm Spring rain.
It was supposed to be tomorrow but
Mother thought the forecasted sun
and flowers, a bright finish to
this dreary Winter,
Would **** the mood.
So to speak.

The earth was soft but the willow
tree roots fought back our shovels.
Mother sighed but said the small,
paltry hole filled with muddy water
would do for her ceremony.
But just the ceremony.

She sat in back,
the tail end of her own procession,
and intently ignored our furtive glances
to see if she was pleased.
She was.
Until the rain stopped, then
she called the dampness ‘silly’,
and left.

But  we’d already had the guests on
notice, with bereavements ready since
Mother can be quite fickle
and at times unruly so
we held our mother’s funeral today
her tears and ours the warm Spring rain.

I pause shortly as I drink;
And think to remember why
I started this night in a bottle.
I had meant to get drunk
That much is clear
But having been there before
In melon-hued glasses
And sweet Southern passes,
I penned anew a poem
To find where else to go.

Please do not mind my madness; it comes and goes in fits
With little thought of kindness to my hurried, slurring wit.
But if I said 'I love you,' in formulaic prose and posed
Simple answered questions: yes, or no
Moaned silent in the night on lips ruby, cheeks white,
And meter tight; would you return in grace
Your honest heart’s rebuttal or
A gilded, stoney face.