were we of champagne
and brie, golden sunflowers
and rain showers Painting
rainbows over a cornflower

sky. Both flying high as
a condor, not fonder of another.
We only had each other. Blooming
a woodland garden. Didn't see

you harden under a diamond
stitched quilt of December
snow. Remember, carrying the guilt
like a bucket to and fro. Autumn

leaves must fall. In the crimson
with limbs in and hair tangled
in the fire. Both heading for the
funeral pyre.

in raindrops on tin rooftops
pitter-patter/kerplunk
Running down his windowpane
The glass is weeping;

not he. He is sleeping snug
in his four-poster mahogany bed. Not once
does she cross his head. Her silence
drives down from the sky in hail. Dents

the rails on his fence. Leaving him
a little tense. He swings a baseball bat
at them sending them flying high
into the air. Breaking them

apart. Till the pieces
ricochet off his hard veneer. The sky
fleeced in shaggy clouds. He punches
a hole in it, screaming out loud.

licking off his marrow
cheeping
and chattering
sweeping wings
above his window
building a nest
soft as a pillow
underneath the eaves
filling it with feathers, twigs
and fallen dead leaves
squabbling over crumbs
and seeds
with little round heads
and stout beaks
buff tan and brown
with layered black streaks
holding the world
inside of her cheeks

brush it aside,
like a strand of golden hair,
hanging as pleaded panel
curtains covering her

eyes. She'll face it head on,
square. She’ll not allow it
to sit, like dust coating the
furniture. She'll give it

a swift kick, let it fall
like a ton of bricks. She'll not
let it blow, like smoke from frying
steak in the pan in her kitchen,

out the window, in a black
colored band. She’ll not lock it
in the closet with all her
skeletons. She’ll mix it

up with the gelatin. Blood
orange and mint. Plate it
for dessert. Wash it down with
gin and tonic, all this hurt.

wept all over
the mahogany table. So, he cradled
them in his hands, till the color
ran down the length of

his arm. And his hand
was a prison for the wrinkled
crimson. Men before him spread
the soft, curled petals all over

their four cornered brass
bed. And they died without
water. They died without sun.
They died dried up. They'd been

picked too young. All that is left
is the appendage riddled with
thorns. She piddled her life on men
since the day she was born.

can erase the contours of
his chiseled face
the high cheek ruddy bones
petal rose lips
kissed a hundred times
in the corners of this cobwebbed mind
the crevices above his porcelain brow
his doe eyes making me grunt
like a pregnant sow
an ectomorph with a glabrous pate
a Cheshire grin that cannot fade
the swirling cyclone clouding this head
the secret trysts in his tool shed
his lithe arms encasing me
as a chrysalis
engulfed, a **** gooseberry
in the physalis
and the world outside
did not exist
creaky windows covered
in lavender mist
the scraping of soiled soles
two breaths rise
dancing in silhouettes
no amount of time
can erase this

I like the ocean
as it mixes with the sand
to form a cast of my foot
where I stand. It molds

in-between my toes, around
my heel and under my arch,
kinda like a paste of water and
cornstarch. As I lift my ankle

I see the impression of a
size seven. And another just like
it, and another and another,
leaving a trail behind me. As I look

out over a cornflower sea
I feel the cool, soft sand massaging
my feet. I feel like the leader of
a band. I don't need a man

to hold my hand. This walk will
be a memory. The footprints will
wash away as the tide rolls in.
Nothing here can stay.