the beating drum in me
hides:
a grotesque pumping coward.

"If
you run your fingers
down my back
like that
I won't say no.
So, if no is what you
want,
then stop,"
I say
as you bite into
your peach,
red sticky sweet
drips down your
hand,
Your swamp eyes
shine.
"How can peaches
be that red?"
I fumble
as you press
your lips
to my neck,
shoulders,
soft of my stomach.
I bite my lip
to stop the noise
as the room
fills with peaches.

just off the pulsating sounds
of the city's street
we found a haven
of overgrown daisies
and blackberry trees

with death below
our stumbling feet,
we marched
to our hearts' errant beat:
our veins warm with life

cracked stone supported
our contented skin
and we sank lips to lips
as those below reached
with the bones of bear fingertips

Without you,
I have to face myself,
spend time
alone
with myself.  

I don’t let my head
fill with visions of us
making love.

I don’t let my mind
wander to a porch
where we
drink wine,
smoke American Spirits,
make music.  

I don’t daydream
about our future condo—
your music room which showcases your guitars
your records
or my study which overlooks the herb garden
smells of old, coffee-stained books.

I
sit down with my past and future
drink expensive draft beer,
have political discussions.  

Except I am terrifying.  
My face is half ripped off
and I reek of decaying flesh

Three Hawks soar above
I feel no twinge of fear for
I am one of them.

I have one thousand
experiences in me,
but I am the now.

Underneath a tree
on the side of a mountain
with nothing to solve.

The in and out flow,
a steady rhythm of life,
is effortless here.

In the late afternoon
I want to go outside
but don’t
because of the bees
that dance
and
hover
in early spring sunlight.
I—an adult—
Gigantic compared to them—
am terrified.

So, I stay in
where the air
is still
and smells
of last night’s
fish Friday
and I don’t move for
hours
in a place between
sleep and awake
though my body begs
as I dream of outside
but it seems
frighteningly  

far


away

an orange guitar
and a bottle
of cheap Merlot
is a Saturday night

a mistle-toe scented candle
burns:
its flame
moves, jives
to the vibrations
of
Stevie Ray Vaughn.

quiet fall
creeps in
through the
cracked window--
the smell of fields,
of north carolina
air

Can we exist perfectly
in this moment together?
Will I open myself,
close my eyes,
let my senses guide?
Do my lips form perfect spaces
for you to fit inside?
Can we belong to this place
where there is no hope
and no wish
and no pray
and no dream
this place where there is only
do
and there is only now
and only
breaths
and beats?
"what do you feel?"
you ask.
a question
that is my
answer.

I didn’t cry at your wake.
Your lips were painted bright pink
to match your casket
which I called a coffin
and mom
told me those were what
vampires
slept in and
you were an angel
so
it was a casket.

I held your cold hand that day
and half expected you to smile at me
when mom said it looked like you were smiling
probably
because you were in heaven.

And everyone kept saying
you were in a better place
but
I looked and couldn’t find you
anywhere.

And a cousin—
the annoying one who I’d
never met before--
said
Let’s go look at the pretty lady
and I said
She’s dead, stupid.

And then the uncle
who couldn’t remember his name
peed in a chair
and I tried to tell mom
but she just stared at the wall.

And when they lowered your body
into the hole in the ground
I thought
Surely I’ll cry now
and I even pinched myself
but
I couldn’t.

seeing faces
in the wood-paneled walls
of my bedroom
again:
laughing ones
make love
in the passionate brown
of night wood
and
screaming ones
bother me--
sneak into my
dreams
to disrupt
the blue slumber
of my
ignorance

I was indifferent when you died.
My smaller self—
who had decided to be a nun
was too young to understand
death.

I played with Barbie dolls
while you mustered your last breath
downstairs
to warn mom: protect
the children.

I matched skirts with shirts,
placed shoes on feet shaped for heels
while you told mom
the priests are
in on it.