dough
needed life to grow
that folded and pressed
and stretched
all the years of their lives
with structure and strength
to roll out and mold
that they have not to hold
watered and powdered
and turned
everything they have learned
into the bread
and fed their family and friends
with their hands
and still reap the salt
from this land

as a cap on a wave
or starve off tomorrow
and limp through today?
Do you do the rituals out
of habit or lust? Do you shine as
a star or skim the top as
dust? Do you do as say? If it
falls on deaf ears it doesn’t count
anyway. Do you pretend to be
someone you’re not, even to
yourself? Or have you forgot? Do you
question the motive. Or never ask
why? Are you a December snowflake
or a firecracker in July?

out wide
to hide the rage
painted the top
and bottom crimson clay

showed the crooked,
yellowed ivory
both rows
the glow of the suntan
was a moat around
the crescent moon
the mound of wrinkled
fleshy protrusion –

but it’s only an illusion
the black-legged orbs
of green
above the brow
are not a smoke screen

dampened from the pain
I catch the beads
of rain with my tongue
and swallow
choking on the memories –

an overgrown lawn of disease

are shooting off
in his head again. The fuel-injected
engines have a full bed of range. Seems
as if things haven’t changed. Men

are getting burned from his
missiles. The steam kettle whistles
as the water boils. And the thistles
taste like cod-liver oil. I, as his mother,

pierced in the heart. Sick of this life
and playing the ****.  The old man can’t
help me. I’m in it alone. I crawl to
the bottle. Shut down the phone.

out of life
as I did with my hair as
a ten-year old child
that didn’t care. It was a cinch and

did the job fast. I’d throw
the mass in the trash. It looked like
a nest that the Robin hatched

her chicks in. Women are
snarly. And so are men. And I,
too. It’s hard to brush through
the clumps of life. My head is

an ocean. My hair, the crashing
waves. And the men are all lice. I’d
like a clean shave!

black as the night sky
brown as flapjacks buttered and syrupy
peach as a peach farm tree
red as my son’s skinned knee
thick as an alligator
thin as a high-school waiter
acned and wrinkled
old and pickled
fresh as a baby’s bottom
fallen as the leaves in autumn
every mole, rash and blush
is lush with life
and hasn’t been touched
by a doctor’s knife
aging isn’t flawless
it’s beautiful

I don’t ask for sanction
seek imprimatur
live by criterion
I’ve made it this far
wearing my scars
as a badge
for living a hard life
in the face of jeers
through soaked filled tears
I’ve cried an ocean
riding in a river of pain
I rise as the sun
after the rain
none can stop me
I’ll stand unchaperoned
in the face of the crowd
holding my voice
steady and loud