as a full moon
at night
dandelions growing in
my garden upright
the clouds sprinkling showers
a day with twenty-four hours

He's part of me
as wings on a butterfly
the golden sun filling the sky
apples swimming in ma's apple-pie
the tea leaves, camellia and mint
the steaming water in the kettle
a tint of amber pouring from the metal

He's part of me
this crusty scab covering my wound
the wound itself
settling dust on my bookshelf
the thorns on a rose
this juxtapose

if it slid into him full throttle
as a baseball player sliding into
home-plate, kicking up the dirt into
his face. A mound of smoke rising

from the ground, the cheer of the
crowd. He wouldn't know love if it slapped
him silly. If it knocked out his two front teeth
nilly-*****. If he bled from the mouth

with a swollen lip. All he knows is
that he couldn't kiss. He wouldn't know
if it ran him over like a land Rover, leaving
tracks on his chest, scars up and down

from his hip to his breast. Cutting off
his legs and mangling his arms. He wouldn't
know love if it dropped him out of a plane, and
he hit the ocean like a freight-train!

a sailing ship to a harbor.
But you harbored rancor
toward me. So, I rode out
a stormy sea.

I turned to you
a broken limb to a cast.
But you cast me to the side. So, I didn't
heal. I just backslide.

I turned to you
a stray homeless waif.
But you lead me astray.
I'm not safe.

I turned to you
an orange moth, circling the flame.
Both of us inflamed
with passion, crashing head on
burning in a song.

with the slightest breeze
his flame blows out into the
wind. Circling and billowing in
my honey hair I cough and choke

breathing in his air. He burns
both ends every day, growing smaller
as he melts away. He doesn't break
as glass. He weeps hot wax

running down his wick, till he
looks a homeless bearded man
that's sick. Bent over he passes
gas in his holder. And smolders as

a cigarette. The **** years
of work and sweat. No light, no flame
no ivory tower, just a stump of man
with dreams that soured.

I'll still bite them hard.
They can put up fences.
And I'll still cross their yard.
They can knock me

down.
But I'll stand up.
They can refuse to serve me.
I'll still fill my cup.

They can throw stones.
I'll still swim.
They can shut the lights off.
So, I'll read in the dim.

They can lock doors.
I can open with a bobby pin.
They can cheat at every turn.
But just the same, I'll still win.

They can build mountains.
And I can climb.
They can rip out my pages.
But I'll still rhyme.

mirror, growing smaller
than a beetle and so
clearer. When he was larger
than life he was fuzzy as

a high-winded kite. I,
tethered to his string,
held onto the whole tangled,
twisted thing. Pulling

it with me as it cut
into my hand. Bleeding
a bright strawberry jam,
attracting hornets, and

dancing in
the buzz. Does it
make me slow down?
Does it not turn me around?

like an unhatched egg
pushed out of the nest
to make room for the rest
of the birds
the ones that can't fly
die

like the little runt
that can't catch up
with the rest of the bunch
so he is lost
chasing his tail
in the snow and the frost

like a lover
thrown out the door
for the body of another
with more ******* to explore

like the chubby girl in school
sitting quietly and following the rules
wearing glasses and braces
with greasy hair and acne
tripping over her shoelaces