A faint glimpse of what cannot be grasped
puts me over the edge and into the abyss.
Desire is the drive, but comprehension is the end of
the battle that’s impossible to win;
for the double-edged sword draws blood no matter
how it is swung.
Blessed is the man with his eyes wide shut;
****** is the man who couldn’t help but look.

His rasping grumbles define hunger, louder than my stomach
      complains about the seven hours since breakfast,
Grunts replace the pry of a commanding tongue, eager to devour, or a feathery graze past the
      hook in my collarbone, a tender nip at the crescent of flesh that
      peeks below my white plastic earring.
Gutturals guide our transition from a stained mattress to a rickety desk where
Frenetic eyes validate the arch of my back.
Wild thrusts push us perpendicular.

Undoubtedly, my howls alert the neighbors.
If not, then the neglected crashes of my plummeting clutter or the unfaltering thud of my head
        pounding the half closed window can attest:
We mean business.

The tired floor creaks ‘nd cranks as erratic lunges hasten.
(grasping his shoulders tighter than a lone, wrinkled hand grips the pepper spray in her bag)
I brace that swelling itch, my hips shudder as it consumes, throbs, and then
Electrifies to axons from dendrites.
And he doesn’t miss a beat— more jabs **** my liver.

Strong  winds make rain dance on the roof.
High heels perform passionate flamencos.
The windows weep pear shaped tears.
Fog wraps the house in ***** rags.

You  died
1 year
12 months
365 days ago.

Your aunt said “he’s in a better place.”
What better place than here, with me?
Your uncle said “it was his time.”
I saw no expiration date.

I feel no anger, no denial and accept
that you are gone. The deep ache in me,
the painful rise and fall of memories
will never cease.

I hold your favorite shirt, fold it under my head.
It smells of you and sea and sand and sweat.
Across the front it reads:
“keep the daily bread, give me the wine and cheese!”

I hear you laugh and swallow tears.

I think about you in the morning, when I’m washing my hair
when my fingertips feign yours and if I close my eyes, I can almost really feel you.
as I’m putting on my clothes, there you are again,
your hand resting on the small of my back.
when I’m walking to work, our hands once intertwined,                         
I feel your leg brush against mine.
And as I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear the words you whisper
little daggers in the night, piercing through the slumber
the fingertips start dragging, nails cutting
and your hands sliding up the nape of my neck, tightening.
when I wake up from that nightmare,
you no longer seem that delicate.
---
maybe round two will prove for tougher skin, not as easily bruised
and maybe the second time around, that pit won’t be as deep
that sinking feeling won’t have as far to drop
the next time my heart feels pain, scar tissue hardening,      the reverberations won’t be as jarring
and while the assumption is there, that it won’t disappear completely,
I can hope for numbing overtime, like winter slowly closing in on my toes
you can barely feel the cold anymore

the woman laid her stomach
over the child's soft downy head
as a shield
as armor
to protect such soft innocence
from the grainy world that creeps in
with it's gnarled fingers.
the same world that took
the warm fragile beating
of her heart
and sloooooooowed
it
to
a
dull whisper

it's like we are a family
of pressed flowers
slid between glass casings
or dried butterfly wings
pinned on a cork board.
something to be studied
observed
fragility that disperses
between finger and thumb
sorrowfully turning into dust that
coats the surfaces of tables or
writing desks.
i'll always love the colors
always love their hues
shaping me-
they made me the golden shadows
of things, like during sunsets.
but i feel blue
at the bottom
and it's because they are sad
and i know so much
about flowers
that are truly people
and nothing more//