I stretched my arm
over your chest, curled
my fingers around your bicep
as you watched fireflies
flit across the tent.
Breathing even, you explained the science of
the little black bugs,
how they got those green lamps.
I watched the moonlight kiss your
forehead, and reached my hand to stroke
your curls.
Midnight rain tapped against the tent,
and lulled me into brightly lit worlds where you
whispered romance in my ear,
touched my forehead,
told me that you
loved me and would
never let
me leave.
When I awoke,
the moon was gone,
but the rain was not.
And in the darkness,
I heard the sharp
intake of your snores,
felt your arms twitch in dreams
I would never know.

We were rebels,
swinging as
high
as we could in our
fluorescently floral
print dresses while
our mothers sipped
black coffee.
And we giggled and
kicked the tufts of
dandelions and spun
under ribbons of
watercolor sky.
We wished on stars
long before we even knew
their names, and
grasped the air wildly,
watching fireflies
wriggle around in
our palms.
And we pinky-
swore we would
never grow up,
or turn into our mothers,
or worry about the
little things, but
inevitably
our ring fingers acquired
diamonds, and bassinets
congregated in the corners
of our master suites. So
we broke
our promises,
but never our vows.
And our children
swing now from
white picket
porches into
endless horizons.

It was her grandmother’s,
on her step-mother’s side,
not really a relative at all.
A hideous thing, it was,
crudely constructed yards
of yellowing ivory, with
giant creampuff shoulders
and a scratchy hemline.
The bodice was decorated,
sprinkled with dull gems,
crusty pearls.
The veil was, by far,
the worst offender.
A gauze with blotchy
brown stains, misshapen
holes, gnawed by rats.
She bit her lip as her step-
mother wrinkled her brow,
poking at the skirt, the train,
hoping it would burst like an
odd bubble or
mushroom at
any moment.

lately, lately, lately,
I’ve learned life is too
short, even for the most
invincible of us.

we live in hospitals we construct
for ourselves, shelves stocked high
with anxieties, and
finances, and
pills for every kind of high
or low.

and we live this way–
chained to our bedsides,
keys in our pockets, crying
out for doctors
and saviors.

and we die this way–
holding onto something that we
thought, we constructed to look
like hope.

except we know it is just
a scribbled picture, just a
crayon creation of a
gruesome monster, a thing waiting

to grab us, with fierce
blue claws, and pull us
under by our
fluorescently lit halos.

i was wrenched from a bed
that was not my own to begin with.
into the sunlight, they dragged me,
hands yanking at my long hair.
i clutched my body.
jaw set, i silently vowed not to cry, to take it
like a woman should – to look them in the eye,
to stand unashamedly in front of my neighbors,
my mother, and my sisters. to stand in front of the town,
and face the inevitable.

the Pharisees threw me to the ground, gave a swift kick
to my side – gentle, compared with what would come.
the women, eyes glossed with icy detest, spat in my face.
so the ***** has been caught, they hissed.
But i refused to give them the satisfaction.
i wouldn’t close my eyes during it.
couldn’t.
Jesus, they barked, we caught her sleeping
with a man she doesn’t belong to.
you know what to do.
the little children and the rabbi and the mothers
and the sons, they felt the ground
for smooth, heavy rocks.

i bowed my head slightly, as fingers trembled over
new, prune-colored bruises
on my ribs, my stomach.
i unlocked my knees and lifted my chin,
met his eyes.
he paused for a moment, nodded his head slowly.
If you are without sin, please, cast the first stone.
i bit my lip, waited and watched,
squinting in the sunrise.
the Pharisees grumbled, the townspeople eyed me, but said
nothing, until they left, one
by one.

that Jesus, they mumbled,
He’s always finding loopholes.

daffodils sprinkle their magic
fairy dust along tufts of whispering bluegrass.
her laugh skips across the rocky driveway,
as she watches her best friend balance on a skateboard.
panting spotted dogs lap cool water from their
brightly colored bowls as they lounge on the wrap-around porch.
next-door-neighbors splash into their pools, the scent of
grilled hotdogs and charred hamburgers wafting across the
aquamarine sky. children with floaties splash at their
parents, tiny mouths bursting into sun-soaked smiles.
sunscreen-toting mothers drag beach towels embroidered with
superheroes and princesses to dry off their young ones.
warm-bodied babies cry on bouncing knees as storm clouds
gather across the stainless steel skies. little girls squeal and
parents scoop their plates filled with food into the house, as
lightning sings in the afternoon.