blood red diamond
tops tender green emeralds,
rose quartz and morganite
in a feast of polished deposit.

teardrop laden,
glistening against the stirring sun,
the world waits in dew.
crystal drops wink,
the blood diamond contemplates emerald tightrope,
slick escape.

with a bubble here,
a drop there,
Little Lady Beetle
attempts to dry its wings.

the flower that rests beneath
bends low,
and too shimmers
like a July sparkler.

I pulled a piece of string
from my sleeve,
watched it float to the ground,
collecting itself into a small circle.

The ring reminded me of days past
when I thought that was what I wanted-
that ring.
How odd
that such an ordinary string
on such an arbitrary day
could teach me about myself
in one split second,
pointing out that the ring
was never what I wanted,
never what I needed.

The wind blew the flowers around me
and tossed up my hair
yet the ring remained,
stagnant,
unmoved,
a praxis,
like the boy who still hoped for the promise
of a ring.

So I collected my things
and rose from my spot between those two Hydrangea bushes,
stepped over the ring
and continued on my way,
movement from the
staleness of monogamy
to the chaos of something more.

Always moving
to something more.

They were laughing at the sign
that read “hugh jass party”
They passed it, laughing,
and headed down the hill
when D stopped them to say
“Hey, we’re missing someone.”
They were laughing at the sign
when they turned to find their friend
and the laughter stopped
at a bitter, bitter end.
When he dropped to the ground
they’d been laughing at the sign,
so they missed the cut-off
of his high-pitched sound.
The laughter stuck in their throats
and their legs froze in place as they watched.
His body was laughing,
his mouth too busy with foam to form the noise.
His body laughed
and quaked
and flinched
and his body became caked
with the dirt and dust
that he kicked into the air.
His body laughed
when security finally came
and they still stood
stock-still,
unable to come to terms
or understand who was to blame
as they carted him off.
He didn’t come back that day.
He didn’t come back that night.
He didn’t come back at all,
and they were forever haunted by the fright
they felt when the laughter died away that day.

Pretty Lights

in a crowd,
  two people:
    one boy, one
  girl, are in a
trance. they
             dance in
             a bubble,
               twirling
                          around each
                          other; lights
                           search the
                              grounds
                     ­         but eyes
                            remain
                 closed. shoulders
              bob, heads twist
            left to right, feet

     bounce
      and keep
    their circle
   w   i   d   e.
    eyes meet
       only now
          and again,

      *secret smiles.