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 Apr 2017 t
blue mercury
You left your honey mouth in the cupboard, so
today your words are fogged glass
Don't you ever ponder upon the bruises you leave?
stained glass is considered art,
but it's not until you put it somewhere
to be admired that people know.
I saw you from a mile away-
like a kitchen fire
and someone's (dead) body.
But you were humming that melody
that made me seasick with its radio waves, and
made me burn bright with shame.
I always thought that maybe you'd see your
reflection in the puddles at your feet,
and that you'd try to change it
with your rain boots, dip them in the unwelcome depictions.
But I know that you'd continue on with your life,
saying that the reflected you was nothing
that you were something. You, in flesh, in spirit
You claimed you emptied your bones and filled
them with pebbles so you'd be grounded, when really,
you were just stuck in a rut,
smelling of sea water,
trying to get some sleep.
I tell myself that you were not wicked,
but why else couldn't you rest?
You sip your lemon tea
out of a little ceramic bowl,
telling me it tastes better that way,
but you weren't always all sour mouth
and sharp tongue.
You used to be fragile like a storm,
and wild as a starlit night,
diving, with the bruises painting you a melody
you couldn't hear, but saw
nonetheless.
 Apr 2017 t
spysgrandson
he imagines
he has carpal tunnel
from channel surfing;
reruns,
his greatest
weapon against
insomnia

the ficus, the
philodendron
she left
(with half
the wedding
china)
are taking
an eternity
to die

a fortnight
without a teaspoon
of water would
wilt the most
hardy specimens
of their kingdom

perhaps she
bequeathed him
cacti in
disguise

he asks
if they are
what they
appear to be:
leafy indoor
greenery

or prickly
survivors
that grow
only where
all things
are venomous
or have thorns

they swear
they are not
botanical
imposters

liars

he turns up
the volume
on his flat screen
to drown out
the mendacity
of flora

the fauna,  
after all,
were not
to be trusted
either

— The End —