like a tall glass of steamed
hot milk. And he spilled it
on the floor. And left it there
to sour. I poured my fervor

like a rain shower
in a grey cloudy sky
till his backyard was flooded
by a full-blooded woman's

sigh. I poured my fervor
on my angel sleeves. And he
lopped it off in one fell
chop like a branch on a tree. I

poured my fervor like cremated
ashes over the ocean. All this
emotion was carried off in a wave,
that became my watery grave.

sponge, turning and
twisting like an otter till
every ounce of water is a rolling
bead on her. She's dropping mold

from the ceiling. Peeling back
layers of paint over the rot. No one
can cover the ugly black spot. A musty
smell of old books and wet

socks. She's a spiked slice of
ice weeping from the eaves into
a deep freeze. She's hot candle
wax trickling down the side,

rough as rawhide. Running rain
in the sewer. Plopping like stones
heavy and wet. Another day lets out
the same as it rose in – draining

she keeps in a drawer
with her socks. Sprinkled with
dewdrops in lemon and
sage. And strings them together

on a long goose feather slowly
turning the page. Her pupils
are a tunnel of deep-fried funnel
cakes. And she blinks like

a lightning bug when she's
wearing a mug of strawberry
wine and buttered sunshine after
a long hard day. Her iris is shamrock

green that falls between a whisper and
a sliver. She's riding the river of dreams.
There's a hint of starlight that she holds to
tight. It peppers her lens with cream.

beaming down on me
with a cheesy wheel smile,
cold as ceramic tile. I'm a smoky
silhouette in a licorice sky,

tracing stars like a mad
magpie. A breezy wind is playing
hide and seek slapping pearls
of dewdrops skipping down

my cheek. Rhythmic chirping of
crickets singing leaves me
prancing in pain. Spinning my arms
around, I'm an arrow on

a weathervane. Drunk on lilac’s
flowering perfume. My head's spread
like a plume. Morning sun pops kernels
in the pan, cooking me up like a flan.

I saw his face I was
deep in the ocean without
a gill. On a treadmill burning
my energy chasing a dream

westerly through scorching
sun, icy rain blinding snow
and gale. Like a dog chasing
his tail only for it to be cut off

and fed to him. The last time
I heard his voice was on a cellular
screen, cold as a steel canteen. I froze
like snow melting on the eaves, as I

rolled up my long cuffed
sleeves. The last time was the first
time I walked. I blocked out years
of pain and held all the rain

in a ceramic vase with holes. And grew ugly
as a ******* mole. He stuck like chewing
gum, in a hard ***. Hadn't thawed even in
mid-July. Faded out in a nod and sigh.

on her little shoulders,
the planets, the stars, sun
and the moon. The countries
and continents. She's a walking

cartoon. She's bent over
from the weight. They loaded
her small paper plate. And she
stumbles and trips because

it's easy to slip wearing
the world across her back like
a gunny sack. She was born
carrying the cross. Her mother

nailed her umbilical cord
to it. Every day she walked
toward the door her mother pulled it
like a dentist does to a decayed

tooth. Batting her around like she
was Babe Ruth. When she dies she'll
be buried in a coffin with a wide berth,
laying her load down in the earth.

that porcelain face with spider
legs in black mascara they'd dance
like Mati Hari wearing a crimson
sari. Hazel colored iris scream

from all they've seen. They've held
back a river with honey glazed
ham. Stuck to their shell like a razor-
shell clam. Frosted cornflower

shadow is painted over the
lid. Curtained in bangs of ink pasta
squid swishing back and
forth like windshield wipers. Nose

blowing gunk out like winded
bagpipers. Or if they were sewn
tight with needle and thread she'd lay
them to rest like an indigo spread.