down
and a drop
of dew
fell
to the ground
lead by two more
and soon
I'm a racoon
and a flood's
on my floor

I strolled
to the closet
and grabbed
the mop and bucket
but the furniture
was floating
and I sinking
until the bucket
was my boat
and the mop
my paddle
and I battled
a tidal wave
until the roof
caved

not as old
as the mountains
or the trees
in the redwood forest

He’s moving slower
not as slow
as the Galapagos tortoise
he moves with purpose

His body’s softer
not as soft
as goose down
but soft enough
to wrap my arms around
and feel protected

He's lighter colored
not as light
as an albino
or a ball of floured
pizza dough
the darker hairs
have turned gray
the blush of crimson
on his face
has melted into butter
but I could love no other

I’d sit all day
on your windowsill
bright as a flowering
bouquet. I’d fly from

room to room, following
you as you move. I’d see you
in the morning as you lifted
the shades to greet the day. I’d see

you in the kitchen, peering over
the sink, fixing up your breakfast –
pouring a glass of milk to drink.
I’d follow you to your office,

hiding behind the screen. As your
fingers danced the keys I’d preen my
feathers. And pick on an ant waltzing on
the sill until the sun fell. And you climbed

the stairs into your bedroom. Your wife drawn
the shades. Then I’d fly high inhaling
the memories. The sky, pink chiffon. I’d sleep
on your lawn. And wake you with song in
the wetness of the morn.

he looks as wax.  He moves
and speaks with mouth
and feet. So, he’s alive. But I can’t
rub my hand on his stubble,

the growth poking out
from his morning shave. I can’t
smell the salt on his breath from
the pretzels he ate

between the calls, or touch
the softness of his navy sweater. I stand
still, holding myself together. He can’t hear
the flutter of my heart. He doesn’t hold me

in his arms. His hands sit deep inside
his pockets. And I’ll shoot off
as a rocket, landing on Mars. I don’t leave
my fingerprints on the glass. I won’t

stain the view of the kaleidoscope of gray
and blue.

my dear. It flows slow
and smooth. It’s gold
and mixes well. You wouldn’t
want vinegar in your tea. It’s tang

cuts the tongue. Think about when
you were young. You hated taking
your medicine. You’d pinch your nose
and close your eyes. And pray it goes

down quick. I don’t want you
to be like that with me. Make it
easy to be near you. No assault that
would fear you. Just a note of

song remembered long,
until we meet again. The amber
treat is a spring under your
feet.

the squirrels are chasing tails
playing tag. A bunny hops
in, grazing the grass. A jay bird
passes by blending into the azure

sky. My son looks like
a pea in the pod, wrapped up
in the hammock swinging from
the oak. He pokes his head out

and closes his eyes. The leaves are
a canopy of green. The smell of the
burgers cooking on the grill are making
my tummy do pirouettes. The deck

is as gray as the hair on my head,
splintering in parts. Poison ivy is growing out
of the slats. I sit back in the chair and
laugh as I sip a cold, frothy beer. And thank
the stars that summer is here!

I had no say in the matter
whether I was an accident
or planned. I was born into
this world a helpless baby

girl. I depended on you,
the adult, to take care
of me. I couldn’t walk
or talk. I didn’t have teeth. If I

was too much a burden
on you the parent, I shouldn’t
be shamed by your lack
of care. I shouldn’t have to

visit a therapist for sixteen
years! I shouldn’t have to undo
all the damage you’ve done! You’re
dead now; but my life still goes on. You should

have known to get help/should have
listened to your best friend. She warned
you. But no, you didn’t want to face that
or anything else. So, you put on a mask

and hid your real self. And many
believed you. Your performance
was grand! Even my best friends
couldn’t understand years later

when we’ve all grown up
that although the physical abuse
was healed, my internal scarring grew
roots so deep from the emotional

abuse that I will die with the
secrets inside. Because I’ve been shamed
so much not to talk. I didn’t ask to
be born. You didn’t want me. You

should have aborted me. But the legend
of pain lives on.