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sandra wyllie Sep 19
geometry, chemistry
or history. He looks at picture
books. Doesn’t know many words. But he
can sing songs he’s heard. Doesn’t know

world affairs or politics. He skips
stones and plays sticks. Doesn’t know how to
read the paper, or how to tip the waiter. But he can
pull a kite on a string. He can run and laugh

in the wind. He doesn't know guns shoot
bullets. His guns are plastic and only squirt
water. Doesn't know how to clean his
clothes. Rolls in mud as an otter/rides on

the teeter-totter. He doesn't know about masks
and latex gloves. He only knows kisses and
hugs. He doesn't know about ***/hasn't smoked
a cigarette. Doesn't know about beer in a can. Only knows

bears roam the land. He doesn't know about taxes
or work, how to drive a car or the neighborhood
bar. He doesn't know how some men are venomous,
or how not to trust. If I didn't know better/ I'd say
he is the smartest man ever.
For my son Alex
sandra wyllie Sep 18
in your lies
and cunning tongue. I live
my life out in the shade,
dark and cold. The night grows old,
and morning doesn’t spring up
as a buttercup.

You split the moon
with your black, thick fist
giving it a fat lip. Now it drips
blood. I’m covered in red from
my toes to my head.

You packed the stars
in a mason jar,
and threw it in the sea
with your lethargy. Now the only light
is on the ocean floor. But I can’t reach it
with boat and oar.
sandra wyllie Sep 17
hit me hard
hanging me from a rope tied to a tree
as a Piñata of blue, purple, and red
till all the sweet in me
spills and spreads
and the boys and girls run to pick up
the flying candy
I’ll die as a cavity in their teeth

shatter it in smithereens
exploding the pieces as a potato
in a microwave
so, my bits stick to the sides
in a mushy yellowy resin
I’ll die in a potato heaven

If you’re going to break my heart
pin me down as a frog
on a tray
as I lay split me open
pulling out my organs
starting with the heart
and ending with the lungs
serve my legs in a cuisse de grenouille
with a chunk of brie
I’ll die a delicacy
sandra wyllie Sep 16
has his head held high up
in the clouds. He doesn't have humility
like the ones walking on four feet. They don’t
carry a briefcase or phone. They roam

the forest and scrounge the land/not eating
out of someone’s hand. The call of the wild is
the call of the free. The day is young as it
is light. And the night shines bright as the silver

moon. No schedules/plug-in things or
blether. Treading on acorns, leaves and
feathers. The filters are the trees. And the only hot air
is a breeze. They hunt to live/not live to hunt. I’d like
to have my life unrushed and sleep in the brush.
sandra wyllie Sep 15
in golden harpsichords.
But the lines
are splintered boards.

You Speak
in bubbling champagne.
But the rhymes
clog up my drain.

You speak
in sparkling diamond dew.
But the jingle
is leftover stew.

You speak
in orange, crimson blossoms.
But the refrain
lie dead as possums.

You speak
and the notes flow like a song
to the dance of Paris, France.
And I ‘d like to believe you.
The chorus is beautiful.
But you never follow through.
sandra wyllie Sep 14
the size of the kitchen sink. Now I trudge
with every step instead of smoothly slink. Bending
from the weight pushing down on me I can’t see
straight. I see perpendicularly. It makes my gait

wobbly. So exhausted I can't sleep.  Every turn
I take the boulder barrels as a jeep, leaving tracks
upon my sheets. Run over by black lies and
used to bes I weep blood-soaked drops hard as

lollipops that break my teeth. The sun's a nun
that has to preach.  But this boulder only smolders
making me vexatious to reach. The landslide that is I
has blocked every street. This mountain has crumbled

at my feet. Today the streetcleaners sweep up
the rubble. How did this chip grow into a boulder? Or is
that I'm older I sunk in the debris?
sandra wyllie Sep 13
dead end roads
in this town
one-way streets
climbing weeds
the air thick
as black-eye peas
sidewalks uneven
pretty soon
I’ll be leaving

One too many
masked faces
races
clogging up
my arteries
with grease
greasy lies
greasy smiles
greasy hands on the dial
I’m moving out
for a while
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