So, you can see me in two? The hairline
cracks are widening that the bats are
flying in. They’re roosting on the edge of
broken promises and dreams, of

dry martinis and restless nights
mangled from the things you've said. Buzzing
on my head as a fly, loud as the 1812th overture
in July. Isn't it plenteous that I've chipped off

more than is sticking to me? That the ground
is covered in my flakes and dust? You can't sweep
the crust off the floor. My weeping puddles are rust
on your door. The stain is on your hands.  No soap

washes it out. No vacation or cream or ***
on the sand lands the plane, that we've circled
over and again. My splinters are the quills
I write with. The shards I poke you to see

if you are awake. And if you'll catch me
as I break. All the years you've slept like a baby
as I've wept. Now I’m drier than my martini, and
dreams are smaller than a string bikini.

until she hung her head
in your flower bed. You scorched
her with the sun, then blinded her
in shade, until her petals turned

to blades. Just as her mother pulled
her from her roots to make a
colorful corsage. She wilted attached
in her arms. You plucked her from

the garden to place on
your lapel. You wore her well! But she
died when you took off the suit and
tie. Now she’s flat and faded. If you touch her

she’ll crumble. Even her thorns
have rusted into brittle mittens. She sits in
a leather-bound book, as a space saver,
page 43, in the crook of a page. She's placed

face down. The letters tattooed to her crown.

after the fire. She hangs
in the air like her mother’s bloomers
on the clothesline, blowing in the dusty
greed of yesterday’s deceased. Not a thing

stands. The bark is stripped from
the trees. Life with tied hands is hard. She
loosens her hips to let in a rolled
cigar. When the sky is blazing red, you can

water it, put it out like the trash. But
the fog lurks as the Boston strangler. And every
corner smells like pantyhose wrapped around
her elongated nose. The stub of a smoked cigarette

thrown on an ivory bar that is lit burns as
the tomb of the unknown soldier. She's that soldier carrying
her canteen. She lost her green at the age
of thirteen. The doctors said "PTSD" You can't wash

the stench off. It's a pockmark she lives
with. Covers it in make-up and garters, smiles
and lace, *****, and poetry -
that no one reads.

blurring his vision
clouding his lens
an overcast, a veil
a smudge on his screen
a smear on the glass

I was a gleam
until the glint turned to rust
the sun streaks black oil
the stars covered in tar
the moon drizzled dust

the light blinds us
till we’re two silhouettes
hanging on a string
tangled on the line
those shooting stars
are porcupines

as others grew up. I was attached
as a continent until I broke off
and became an island. Every man
I gave my hand held a chisel. Carved

a piece out of my middle. Now my head’s
hung to my chest. And my feet are at
my knees. I don’t bend to sit. I’m bent
so, I fit with the bottom crawlers. I’m little

as a bonsai, ornamental and
dwarfed. I morphed into a living
corpse. Drinking my days in a purple
haze. Once you’ve lopped you can’t

reattach. A broken branch can’t
hitch back on the tree. It rots on the
ground, covered by leaves. Not missed –
just a stick

a fluff-ball with *******
a dust bunny that’s runny
none take me seriously
just a speck, a freckle on the sun
a flake on a wire
shaken off
a fleck, a spot, a patch
a seed that didn’t soil
floating pollen in the air
a grain of sand
wet and bare
a chip that breaks off
falls
and is lost
is stepped on by a man
smeared under his sole
a blight, a blemish
mole
a cavity
a pinprick
hole

thick, slapping it with
metallic cherry lipstick. Flashing
the ivory as elephant’s tusks. But not
letting them strip you down, removing
the husks.

You plaster it on
the corset and silk underwire
bra. You stand as a donkey braying
“hee-haw”

You plaster it on
sugary, the tone and the pitch. But you’re
wicked as the wicked witch of
the west. Inside each breast is patch of
black lying dormant from every whack.

You plaster it on
the perfumed spray, so the dyed honey-
suckle hair looks like a float in the Macy’s
Thanksgiving Day parade.

You plaster it on
the charm, dying a little every time,
drowning in a glass of ***** and
lime. Smashed as a walked-on banana –
Sick of this Pollyanna

Hello, I'm Sandra