I wanted to write
about that sweet spot
the lowest part of
a woman's back
where my hand rests
after making love
where I trace my palm
up and down
that same perfect curve
over and over
my favorite place

But here I am again
again and again
full of anxiety
your trespasses
firmly rooted
in my mind
my heart
still can't
understand what
happened to it
so I make this "art"
instead

I remember all of the stupid things.
The gap in my first love's fringe
that appeared only when she was flustered,
or torn between *** and G-d.
The nursery teacher who resembled
Jane Goodall and sat with me
whilst my hayfever was too potent
to play out in the sun.

I remember the exuberance of heat
on the concrete slabs in my first back garden.
How my mother would take
boiling water to the empires of ants
that would find life in the cracks
and crevices between my footfalls.
I remember how silent they were
through oppression and death.

I remember my first sight of the ocean.
How serene it looked in the distance,
how unforgiving and cold it was
once I threw my whole weight into it.
The shivering donkeys on the beach,
agitated by the ice-cream crowds;
the man who handled snakes for a living
and persuaded me to touch a killer.

I remember my first guitar
and how I stared at it helplessly
for two hours, like a teenage boy
on his first sight of a ******.
The first sad song to deliver a feeling
never experienced, but communicated;
how adults failed to answer the questions
that music gave forth effortlessly.

I remember when you started leaving
kisses at the end of your messages,
the formulaic gaps in time
before I would hear from you again;
your costume of nonchalance.
The way you appeared in the wasteland hours,
playing the therapist with your kind words
and history of neurosis.

I remember the sheet of plastic
that shielded me from the rain as a child,
the rubber wheels of my carriage
buckling through puddles and gaps;
the first exposure to nature's lullaby,
as I fall asleep through storm and traffic.
I remember how easily sleep once came,
and how I resisted it all the same.

I remember my recurring nightmare.
A big red button and the doors of hell;
some spectre of infinite density
that caterwauled for the destruction
of all things human, all things new.
The way my mother's arms were infallible,
the priest's glare, omniscient;
the revolting concept of a cigarette.

I remember all of the useless things.
The rings around my grandfather's eyes
on the only occasion I saw him cry.
Kissing Rebecca on the lips,
cementing our love with tree sap
and the promise of an endless summer.
I remember the first time I felt sad
without having a reason to be so.

I remember the shine of the room
when I took pills for the first time;
the incorrigible thirst for water
and the racing confessions that followed.
I remember how it felt,
the first time I trapped someone in a poem;
how easy it was to forget them
once reduced to words and half-truths.

It would make more sense to fall once
To love until it surrenders to the hurt
Found in folded laundry socks
And empty grocery carts.
When I met the soul a second time
I tried to run so far and fast
That I stumbled into a war
Of paper plated pizza and sweatpants.
Maybe there is a second way to turn back
To get tangled in the way it feels
But remain attached to your puppet string.
I fell for you because it made sense
To a believer of this one time chance.
But now the soul is settled on a goodbye kiss
And I am afraid of losing my own grip.
But I let it go.
And feed love to the cats.

Silence hangs in the air
Locked eyes, comforting stares

Slow steps, resonating laughs
Hidden smiles, acting tough

Graceful twirls, heeled spins
Loving waltz, pretty sins

Faces inch close, on her tiptoes
A sprinkle of glitter, under the mistletoe

But time, oh so cruel, takes its toll
Spirits diverge, its ultimate goal

Away they go
One heaven, one hell

Never to meet again
But feelings still dwell

Blinking stars, fading out
Darkness swallows, leaves no doubt

Falling then, in his arms
Safety, warmth, home and hearth

Falling now, no strings attached
Endless crevice, humourless mirth

Silence prevails once again
Awkward, to say the least

for Susan O'Neill Roe

What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
***** girl,
Thumb stump.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.