like the carcass of a duck.
Sans feathers before the roasting.
Man pouring champagne in a red neck flute,
toasting his capture and making me mute.

I was plucked
like a woman's brow.
Tweezed till I was extracted.
Men were distracted in shaping me.
Thinning me out like garden of weeds.

I was plucked
like ukulele strings
to make beautiful music
out of all my suffering.
Strumming my thumb on mahogany,
sweet as a baby wallaby.

I was plucked
like blueberries off the shrub.
Dropped in a tin pail
took home and scrubbed.
I was a tasty snack.
But after you're plucked
they can't put you back.

the day I was born
cut from the red ****** cord
that nourished me
cut like a hanging branch
sawed off the maple tree

I was shorn
like the green grass
in spring
before my time
of flowering
didn’t stand an inch to grow
every weekend
I was mowed

I was shorn
like wool's sheep
on the old man's farm
skirted, rolled and bagged
blind, naked and sagged

I was shorn
of the skin I’ve worn
all my life
shed it like a snake
at night
grew a new birthday suit
didn’t iron out
the wrinkles
learned to dress
finessed in crinkles

the bird outside
my window, the chattering
blue jay as he ***** from
branch to branch. And the cranch
of the squirrel breaking
acorns with his teeth, turning it
with his claws beneath my stairs.
The buzzing bee dancing circles
around the azalea. If I only lived
in Australia! And the neighbor's
kids racing their scooters down
the street while I'm trying to watch tv,
as my poetry sits quietly on the coffee
table gathering dust. And the cable box
is playing a nature show as I doze
to the splashing of the orca. There goes
another day down the drain.

was the last time
he was going to make me
bleed. Every step forward I was
walking barefooted on broken
glass. Every breath inhaled in his
field of wheat was gas.

The last time
I couldn't handle
his contempt. Exhausted from
my attempt to reach him. I was
just a leech swimming in the reeds
of a muddy lake, wrapping around
his foot like a creeper. Kicking me
off like a smelly old sneaker.

The last time
I was this small
I'd no body hair and crawl
on my mother's yellow diamond
tiled floor heading out
her kitchen door.

The last time
I saw his moon head and
tomato red face he was facing away
from me, barking like a mangy
dog up a tree. I slogged turning
a corner, hearing this heart murmur for
the last time.

pelting rain
you're soaking wet. No umbrella.
Cold water seeping through your chest.
You're not dressed for this
weather. Your hair looks like a rat,
flat and sticking to the wrinkles
on your face. You shiver to the bone
all the way home.

Just because it stopped
blowing 137 knots. You fought it
off. But the hurricane left a wreckage
of debris, downed houses, buildings
and trees. The neighbors
forced to flee.

Just because it stopped
them from calling you names
it didn't ***** out the flame. The rage
gutted you inside. They burned your
skin alive.

woven red organza silk
dewdrops of mother's milk
riding bronco over bumps
cherry lips eating up her lumps

She's Diaphanous
crystal blue water
a playful, squirming swimming otter
diving up and down/ in and out
for a meal of rainbow trout

She's Diaphanous
splintered pieces of glass
refracting light in a pass
a prism of dancing color
to only shine, not make duller

She's Diaphanous
rose petal shower curtains
mellifluous as Richard Burton
a feathered peacock in the light
bubbly as a can of sprite

even if he wears pants
and walks upright
upstairs in his head
there is no light

He's not a man
even if he has ****** hair
and shaves his hedge
or grows a beard
he lives on razor's edge

He's not a man
even with hanging *****
notches on his bed
he doesn't care
he's in the red

He's not a man
even though he pays taxes
golfs on Sunday
holds a college degree
look at Ted Bundy