Love is a fickle word.
I learned in anatomy today that the heart
isn't shaped anywhere near the way
we thought it was when we were kids.
And I've spent years trying to put bandages
on a wound that couldn't be healed
by short term romance and desperate company.
It turns out loneliness isn't an easy hole to fill.
But I still throw piles of words,
one on top of the other,
into the void;
hoping to make a poem that will take up the space.
I wonder how many times
someone can wake up beside you
and forget you're there
before you start to wonder when it was that you went missing.
Since when is it called letting go
if they were never holding on to begin with?
Here's where all the lost loves go--
hopefully they find home in one another.
                                   •••
This is for the ones you have to make into poems
because it's the only part of them that stays.

Hush. . . no one must know
That I am at war with my own mind.
No one must know
That I am fighting a losing battle,
Stuck in a brain that wants me dead.

For how long I can keep it up
Only God knows.
But I will probably be dead
Before anyone even begins to wonder.
But hush. . . no one must know.

Finding inner peace
   is like
Searching for a cat
   in a
      Hurricane

We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.

We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.

My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:

We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.

In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.

years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
                                                         ­           often isn’t.

The clock slaves
Their lives
Are regimented
By clocks on walls

Oh the misery
Of it all

I saw the most beautiful
Things today

Heavenly smile
Of that Chinese man

And I was so grateful
To be alive today

I saw the black bird
Standing tall

I saw the small turtle
The mystery of it all

Women discussing
Something about
Rich men

I was wondering around
Yes I did it again

And all because

I couldn't give a ****
About clocks on walls

I have covered the mirror
With notes and quotes

Painted the white walls
With acrylic and oils

Washed my spotless car
Repeatedly

Aired my apartment
Completely

I have written words
On wingspans

Carved phrases
Into his hands

Burned candles
Down to nothing

And left lights on
To hear the buzzing

I eyed my reflection
As I swore:

"I do not love him
Anymore"