There's no sound so beautiful
as falling icicles from branches
after a sleeting.
There will be no cracking
of branches or crying
of trees this winter's night.

Back bent, she scrubs the last soiled shirt on the board
her mother used when she was a child. She rises, stretches
the shirt before her wearied eyes, knowing there are stains
that never fade away, and pins it aside the others on the line.
As she pours the pan of defiled water onto the snow-capped
ground, she suddenly, as for the first time, observes her hands:
their redness, rawness, their winter-weather-beaten
lines and valleys, like blood on the desert. And she remembers
a time when white satin gloves covered those hands, briefly,
the day she vowed to live with a man, in sickness, for health
had nothing to do with her marriage. She replaced the gloves
for washboards and soiled laundry of blood-soaked shirts
from wounds of a war never won, drenched from the stump
where an arm should hold her, but never can. As she hangs
board and pan on the hook by the door, she recalls
her wedding day, just hours before he, her dutiful husband,
was to dash off in heroics into a battle where dignity remained
on the field among dead soldiers and shattered lives...
where months later shame returned to her half-dead, half-man.

Sitting in that bar, with you,
two single ladies on the prowl,
we fell for the same guy,
a ****, long-haired Adonis
and we flirted with him shamelessly
until finally you turned to me and whispered
shall we take him home with us?
And so we did...

In moonshadows, we undressed him
together, and then I undressed you,
watched those two lovely ******* descend
from their cage, watched your eyes widen
with lust and amazement, the shudder
of your thighs as I slipped your ******* down
and knelt before you to press my lips
against your soft mound, lapping at your nectar.

When the soft ******* sigh released from your lips,
I turned to the Adonis and offered you to him,
watched as he lifted you in his strong arms
and lowered you onto his throbbing ****.
You beckoned for me to join you
and I couldn't resist your charm.
As he gently laid you down on the couch,
your legs spread into the air,
his body slamming into you, I ****** gently
on your ripe perked *******.
When his body shuddered into ******
and he withdrew, I slid down to the floor
pressed my lips against your netherlips
and drank of your sweet nectar mingled with his.

I plant seeds,
roses, and petunias, all laced with bitterweed,
cast out fertilizer
and await the rain.

Poetry grows,
but only the bitterweed thrives;
its thick steams consume the garden,
prevent the aroma of scented memories ~
rosy days filled
with fond remembrance of you.

I **** through strangling stalks
to free the roses and petunias,
to allow them to weave
their own paths through the garden,
but i cannot grasp
the thick tangled roots of bitterweed.

We stumbled up the stairs, two drunken fools ~
too high and loose of care, to my tiny apartment.
You fumbled with the keys and I stood, laughing
as you dropped them, not once, but three times
before you finally got the door opened.

Once inside, you pulled out your bowl
and I hurried into the kitchen to get beer.
Upon returning, Nascar screeched from the tv screen
as I tripped over your hiking boots, falling into your lap,
beer sloshing about us and herb scattering about.

You began tickling me in that cousinly way
we always played in our youth. You knew
each spot to make me twist and turn, scream and yelp.
But neither of us expected the kiss.

Lips searching, tongues darting, teeth nibbling ~
I ripped at your tank top, pulling it over your head
and buried my head in your chest, stroking
strong muscles, ******* your *******.

You grabbed my *******, kneading them fiercely,
your fingers twisting and tugging at my *******,
as you bit into the side of my neck. Moans
escaped us as you pulled me down onto the couch.

I gazed up into the mirrors of your eyes,
so like mine, searching your face for a sign:
Should we? Can we? Will anyone else find out
our secret taboo? Your lips erased the questions.

As a child, I drowned fireflies
in the river because I envisioned
them setting ablaze the forest like arsonists.
I thought if I strained my ears,
I could hear them sizzle.. like bacon on a grill
as they flopped about in the water.
But they kicked their legs, belly-up
in the cascades of currents; leaves,
their only life rafts, pulled them further down stream
their beacons flashed a silent SOS.
When their glow softened to a dull ochre,
I gathered the ones closest to shore,
tied strings about their tiny bodies,
and as though they were hanged men,
I sacrificed them to the trees.

One summer, I overheard
that Sadie's baby drowned in the river
while she ****** a married man
on the river's bank. I imagined
the baby's tiny body: arms flapping
like firefly wings as he gulped
water into his mouth; his immature lungs
expanding as he cried a silent alarm;
and his too-large blue eyes staring blankly
into the world of trout and bass below.
Alms to Nature.

Now, floating down stream, inner thoughts
bobbing, arms extended, I pay homage to the river:
O sacred deity.
I inhale and plunge backwards,
further into the cool recesses of its currents.
As bubbles rise, my breath escapes; my lungs panic.
Desperate Child.. Self-Sacrificing...
Yet the currents lift me; I surface unclaimed.

I close my eyes to hear the rain, not wishing to see.
I want to know what it feels like to BE rain;
To know the sensation of falling
Without care of direction or landing,
To be fluid. To be a part of  each splash,
One of multitudes of drops reaching the same puddle.
To spread out with the other droplets
And become something greater than myself.