as a pig
on a spit
turn
turn
men poking me
with sarcastic jabs
salted with
my quips
balking at reality tags
the red apple
pushed between
my puckered lips
is mush in the flames
of a kiss
I’m browning once again
as the ground
after the rain
the patches are stains
the sun falls
as if the pins let go
I see poked holes
at the site  
that enters light

with you. You were
in the same school, in
an underworld of sharks. I reached out
in the dark for your hand. You didn’t

understand. But you replied
in a suit and a tie. I threw out a line
to you. I baited you. And you
bit hard with an old postcard. I look

at the shaggy, black hair and
beard and quiver. Four years
he fell to the angels. Five,
since the last goodbye. You can call

me a fish. Not sober
since October, 2009. I put it in
pen. A couple men seen the plunge
but are biting their tongue.

about the weather
should you pack a sweater?
how there’s no money in the till
your career is still

You can talk
about your drinks
how you're on the brink
the sun over the horizon
unpaid bills from Verizon

You can talk
about your brain-damaged son
your problems weigh a ton
how you don't like showing your body to men
but how you'll do it again

You can talk
about how your husband's out of work
you can't do the twerk
none buy your books
you're losing your looks

You can talk
while the neighbor hammers
through your broken grammar
the birds making a raucous
Ah! **** this!

with your Big plans
and Big dreams
Big ideas
and Big schemes
Black and fat
as a storm cloud
with a leather jacket
as your shroud
tough as gristle
with an attitude
as thistle
thick as cement
and hell-bent on
the things you don’t have
brass is your knuckles
tacks for your eyes
you’re so sticky
you scare off the flies
I’m scared of you
I’m so little
I fit in your shoe

I Need a June Bug

to rub me
a slick of luck. Hanging
down
as willow tree
sweeping dust
underneath my leaves
living in the shade
skimming the surface
without purpose
drooping
blowing
in the wind
a living umbrella
blocking the sun
from my eyes
sick of the façade
and one more tries
wanting to crawl
out of the hole
burrowing as a mole
in the dank tunnels
of life
not as myself
but somebody’s wife

on hot day
a rainbow flower
made of crimson clay
sassafras and moonbeams
whispers and silk screens
a riptide pulling you out
over your head
raising you up
as a loaf of bead
a blade of grass
you rub in your hands
a crack of thunder
that lands at your feet
a port wine stain
with a rhythmic beat
changing as a leaf
in autumn
marmalade or Marmaduke?
she has me confused

I’d slip in through
your screen
without being seen
encircle you
as a gentle breeze
raising the hair
on your arm
as a dandelion
on the lawn

wrap around
your unbuttoned collar
waltzing under your shirt
as a six-leg crawler
making my nest
there in your chest
your heartbeat
makes me jump
as a toad
splashing out
of the water

if this makes me
odder
to not be seen
but living in
cut, cotton fabric
the trestles of bone
and shingles of skin
my home –
if I was the wind