Suddenly, a bang
fired, astray in the air
just after eight pm,
when the church bell
tolled for prayers
invoking the restless
dead in purgatory,
my mother halted
her litany of all saints
to uncover, check,
count our bodies still
on the palm mat-
covered wooden floor
cold in August;
I quickly got up
to look for tan Olive
that did not howl,
its usual noise after
a loud gunshot
echoing for a while
as if to remind,
our dog lying
down on the corner
where I placed
a bowl of sour soup,
under its belly
the puppies lining up
for warm licks.

The hardest part
Will be the days that come after.
Prepare your heart.

You are my unsent message.
The cursor blinking rhythmically,
With my heartbeat,
Waiting,
For me to hit send.
But I am not ready,
And I’m not sure if I ever will be
So I left it like that.
Unsent. Unseen. Unread.
“I miss you.”

Today lent itself to lending
Borrowed number
One hundred and four
The care carrying gardener.

Now the Robbina is robbed
Of half its branches
The grass a carpet
Of strewn lances.

And Rosalind
The pretty repaint
Sits on the shelf
And smiles.

Love Mary **

Where the tops of the trees
Have been chopped
The looking down
Flows easily along.

Love Mary ***

everyone wants to be the moon
touch the stars
and kiss the sun

everyone is secretly sad
that sad gleam in their eyes
confusion covers it all

I don't want the moon
I don't want the sunrise

I want my broken heart fixed
I want the voices to quiet down

trying my hardest
everyone looks away
dealing away
with their mess

to busy helping ourselves
we don't look at eachother

keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  to is what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.