like a Rat Tail comb running through
my hair, with his bone. Back and forth
with rows of teeth. Encircling my head
like the red and golden ***** in a Christmas

wreath. Hovering like a hummingbird,
******* my nectar with his whetted
needle. Singing a song from Taylor to
wheedle. Like a child pulling a prank. Bending

my torso over his lap to spank. I grew
blue in color, like a fish tangled in
the net of a trawler. And as bantering
boys on the school playground

he was quick with a sally. Every fling
that he flung he knew I kept tally. But I too,
batted my lashes. And we kicked up dust
as we burned down in ashes.

like trapped dirt and hair in
the floorboards of a musty attack,
crackling like a phone full of static. Eyes
slot machines in dollar signs

bright green. I couldn't get over;
he was mixed like a box of Russell
Stover. As a turtle I was ready
to snap. Running like sap out of

the maple tree I fell and bruised
my knee and ticker. As the years drew on
I grew sicker. But I hung in there with
my scabs without keeping tabs.

on my arm stand
like soldiers in ten rows,
like wheat fields
as the wind whips through

and blows.
He made the hair
on my head curl
like a plate of green fiddleheads,

like the colored spools  
of grandma's threads.
He made the hair
on the edge of my eyelids flutter

like butterflies in a garden,
like an actress that starred in
a musical play.
But his feet were made of clay.

a flying magnolia aircraft that didn't
think I'd crash into his window,
hitting it with a thud. Face squashed
against the pane. I'm stunned. The life

in me drained. Quashed by a
reflection. Cast by the abjection.
Breaking my neck, gasping for my last
breath. Bleeding inside myself. Wings

folded like an accordion as I headed for
the white and green Victorian. I saw crimson,
orange leaves, watercolors on the trees. Scene
wafting like apple pie, a tie-dye of smells

and colors. Cherry wine in giant
mullers. Thought I'd pass as the wind
through my feathers. I weathered hits
before. But not with a centaur!

chair, molding around the contours
my body. I sink into him as
the beans swim like a school
of fish sticking together. Making

an impression of my derriere
as I melt like butter into the four foot
cloud of cornflower suede. All set out
and laid like a quilt. Cozy and snug

like a warm glass of milk. And rain
can pitter patter on my window. It doesn’t
matter the darkness of the sky, when I’m
safe inside and dry. As the hands on

the clock fly my eyes grow
heavy. Nothing can keep the sleepers out,
not even a levee! The smell of Christmas
pine stands next to my glass of wine.

memory in his handkerchief
tucked in his left breast pocket. In childbirth,
wiping sweat from her brow. Yellowed by her
cigarette. It's balled in wrinkles now. Dabbing

her tears with paisley cotton.  Once white
as the roses she carried the day
they married. She'd blot her crimson
lipstick lips before she planted

him a kiss. Her spilled perfume on
the dresser. The years had not made
his pain lesser. He'd waved the handkerchief
like a kite in the air, as she waltzed

down the stair. Now the square piece of
cloth has holes from the moths. But he
cannot wash it. He wore it along side
his lapel as they rang the wedding bells.

of musical chairs. Walking in circles
to the beat of the phonograph
as you paint on a smile and roll
out the laugh. But the music

stops. And you haven’t found
a sweet spot. So, the next time
the needle drops into the groove
you are removed, like an object

in photoshop. He crops you
out of the picture. You hang back
and see all these girls chasing
a seat. You used to be one of

them. He used to call you his gem. But now
he has more than he can hold. Now that
it's late and he's growing old. His circle
is smaller. Now the girls he's keeping

wear tight collars. He conducts pitch
and sound. Raising them to the sky
like Moses. Plucking them like roses,
till their toes curl. Who'll be the last girl?