I cannot scratch
like this spot
in the middle of my back
a dancing dot
below my rolling shoulders
red hot
where my sunburn smolders
A tight knot
tied around my belly
I can't swat
my hands are jelly
I'm fraught
I cannot reach
the peeling clot
with biting teeth
I plot
to shake it loose
So, I squat
where none can see
my taut
back rubbing against the tree

If I can grow tall as you. But I'm
small. So, I fall as the acorns you
grow. And just as the acorns
I'm a nut in a tough cup, covering

me up. Rolling around
the bottom. Why can't I turn
as the leaves in autumn
golden and crimson? I live

in my shell prison. The squirrels
bury me. I lay dormant as buds
on the branch in winter. I splinter as
bark. I’d like to sing as the lark. Love

to fly as the doves
for my next meal. Why can't I
take the sticks and stones they throw
at me and build a nest high up in this tree?

I'd sneeze and oust him
in the air. And blow out
his candle, ***** out the flare
in a fell-swoop kerchoo. His little

bits floating like pepper
in the stew. I'd swallow them
with parsley and celery seed
and some paprika too. The smoky

flavors added with the capers
and the rue turns into vapor as
a freight train passing through. I wear
him as a red and blue tattoo. If only

he was a pebble I’d shake him
out of my shoe. But he’s rooted in
my brain and fastened with a *****. So,
I drain him ink and sell it out as news.

yesterday up
like dust on the floor. And
stored the gritty sand
in my bedroom drawer.

I swept
his lies
underneath the rug, till the
pile grew into a mountain. I
wasn't counting on tripping
over the smoky stack with only
a woolen weave to hold it in
the shack.

I swept
my dress
along the aisle
like a bride's train. And wept
my whole bouquet, as petals
shed like rain. And the stain
painted on my back became a bullseye
for men to aim all their flak.

round and plump and ripe,
sweet and red and bright.
No one takes a bite.
They hang there day and night.

The worms they drill their holes.
Inside a fungus grows.
They even chew the leaves.
Once pretty now diseased.

The sky is weeping snow.
The apples fall and roll.
Under the tree they froze.
Blanketed in white they doze.

No juice, cider or pie.
No ****, dumplings or crisps.
No man, woman or child
to smile and lick their lips.

as dripping beads
of egg-white
lying on the kitchen
quartz. My life's cut like

my jean shorts, ragged
and straggly.  I've wept
rivers. Like standing in
the cold rain I drain. So, now

I'm tapped. Someone ******
all the sap out of me, with their hands
like milking a tree. I'm dry as my father's
jokes. They didn't draw many laughs

from the blokes. I'm dry as
the Atacama. But drier still is
my drama. Dry as the chardonnay,
and the spill from yesterday.

to fly
as an albatross
in an ocean sky.
But drowning
on a sandy shore,
picking at an apple core.

I'm trying
to swim
as a salmon
in the air.
But can't lift my weight
off this red velvet chair.

I'm trying
to grow
a castle in the clouds.
My head is floating
as a balloon.
But crowds
are tying me down
with their silver spoon.

I'm trying
to lift off
as a rocket.
But this stone
sits heavy
in my pants pocket.