insidious lies:
the ones with a hint of truth
we tell ourselves

Crushed flowers are beautiful,
dried, pressed
not useful but certainly nice to look at
My sister affectionately called me a 'delicate little flower' one of the many times you made me break down, crushed from false accusation
until i eventually dried up
pressed myself until the pain no longer hurt.
I wondered why i had become such a fragile thing
shouldn't heartbreak build you up, a learning experience rather than reducing you to a few petals and a stem.
i feel more like a tree
green and great during the warm summer months
unaware of the freezing winter winds that will blow away all my protective leaves. barren. cold.
i hope someday i will become evergreen
beautiful, tall, luscious and full- pine or cedar or spruce
staying fragrant all year round

but for now i remain a daisy
nothing special
dried, pressed and crushed between these pages, within these words.

We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,

we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,

we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.

We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,

the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,

the hard melancholy
of dying machines.

We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,

we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.

Not Quite Ourselves

In whispers
“Cousin Tommy--  
is passing among us--”
a photo

… at my father's funeral
We, dressed up to honor Dad
Spread the pall along his coffin

“The last thing you can do
for your father”
Mom whispered
to her daughters

There is never a last thing
that women do

...Then to her--
the folded flag
__

Not quite ourselves --
that grief
that echos across decades
Memory is handed round--
that photo
of my Cousin Tommy
__

His eyes gasp!
Grasp!
at me
desperate
in the sudden need for my knowing

that photo--

That this was all....

I would ever know of

you

In that instant
you pass on--

nothing--

but fear

You, paint for war like Mohawks
or something...
not quite yourselves

You guys
must've laughed
like hysterical fools
Half-shaving your heads
Painting each other's faces

And I don't remember
of course
Never met you

Not in my lifetime
_

That War
Not mine!
__

Germany
behind
the lines
of you
long since dead

at 18 years in '45

But I saw the photo!
RIP
the cord!
to slow descent!

Not quite yourself

Your head thrown back
against the terminal velocity
of your life
A war dance

that I had yet to know...
...your face reaches out
across the decades

for one last plea

“Tell them, Lizzy
Tell them 'bout me!”

Not quite myself