Temporary
Wrists turned 30 degrees
Pushing wharped wood
Make whole
That which has retained
Only a faint salt outline
Your chin lowered
Hand curled
Scarred table top
A drink
Coarsing liquid fire
Tremolously their bones
Knit in shape
Prepared for
The buried beckon
Of sleep
Good day then
fais de beaux rêves
between the spectacle
shut your eyes tight
always keep them open
conviction
affliction
conducting weather veins
bristling they ebb
pointing into heavens
would they could talk
up there up there
they look and mock our drama
what we believe ourselves to be
quietly observant at the pew
head down knees knocking
Forgive me Father for I have sinned
the day I turned on others and rubbed in
the same welt
gory and open for flies
to lay their magnitude
little children
little liars
come hold hands by the roses
learn a thorn can prick but words are mightier
wielding penchant for harm
like a crystal ball
hear the soft foot fall of night
clothe us in redeeming disguise
fingers behind our backs twix crossed
one for ourselves, one for luck
nothing left to add to the stew
all poison all venom all malice is
but easy fitting shoes on lusty urge
stay your hand my girl
spend time among the rich of heart
they hold less in their pockets
more in their eyes
as first rays of morning
broker subsuming clouds
of darkness
breaking past
releasing
light
I learned
long after I should
friendship comes not
in fizz and pour
nor the brightness of
shower and radiance
nor promise and its papery craft of bows
but more often unexpected slow
hesitant over years
water leaving her tears on
marble rock
stalwart and less demonstrative
a cat who watches food put out
does not immediately approach
I fell for the fireworks
the hot kiss on lost ego
glittering words
feathered protests to believe
those party animals in their tinsel crowns
pushing me toward celebration
in those days I did not mind
the quiet soul who hung back
someone you could call upon
when deserters ran out of festivity
turned their backs on former animation
I was suckered by their demands to believe
their loudest call was truth, hear me!
now I know quiet love is the steadiest
those who may seem cold or aloof
often outlast town crier
hawking themselves for fancy
I’m sorry it took me so long to
understand silence and softness
are more often truth
much like the piper who
sung children through the mountain
bewitching their longing for loud
merriment
before they grew and knew
the sweetness of sincerity
whispered
Fickle her words
imprecise
imperfect
slices of lemon
squeezed on cuts
cast in open mouth
let the plaster envelop
emotion
I suppose it’s her need
to inflict harm
when her own heart devours
when lust points compass
and mercy
mercy does not show
for role count
instead choosing
to sit out turn
bashing heels against
old radiators
trying to keep warm
this is the danger of
sore hearts
seeking solace
in the unknown
corridor of others
tempered souls
watchful against
storm
They predicted
she would write down
the scar
since healing
was slow
words conveying
that breakage
They predicted
she would condemn
the ones who made the thirteen turns
in hangman’s noose
and pushing lightly
watched her fall like dandelion seed
catching heavy air
she was predictable
and not the one they knew
but some amalgam of all they had hated
in their little boxes of life
laid without opening on red shelf
she who carried her shoes
when stepping through
knew there were times words
could not save
could not banish
the cruelty of flat hands
pushing
Whom ever first penned
the idea coldness was strength
and weakness came when we
trusted and let others in
must have known the curve of the knife
those disposed to violence
carry in their mouth
just incase a moment
should present itself
and licking their lips
wide
they conquer and divide
our feeble entreaty
just leave us be
on the wet coil
perhaps our world measures
guts and glory
on how much blood
remains
when after battle they come
to count the fallen
and it is always your dearest
the one who came closest
the one who said I will never
remove you from warmth
who sharpens that knife
and turns it like
winding a clock
makes it tick
reluctantly
ahead
Time
did I mention you have run out?
and the dye on my head turning me another color
will not rinse
we change ourselves
we re-make ourselves
we are the same within
striving always through infernal din
to measure our worth
against imperfect glass
Strange faced girl sits in her pew
itching wool tights with Bible corner
whilst Mormon’s console Jehovah’s
witnessing their profit in the funeral
business
all along she hadn’t believed
people could turn to wax effigy
the poor man in his pine coffin knew
formaldehyde truths
his children driving home
instead of toys throw words
of anger and resentment
she had always wanted siblings but now
in her black faux expensive dress
less couture than ransacked bargain store
she wasn’t so sure
how the language of the world made sense
if God laughed at those who pretended
to repent
or God was a lizard drinking from brown bottles
one block down from the mockery
of death
Never before
the ordinary older woman
so resplendent and shining
her grief edging unbeknown
like soft light
casting favored hue
her cheekbones as rounded as
tears and regret
he could not see for he was dead
their love flickering snapshots of life
played overhead
the projector whirred
audience stirring like one
slow sadness
confined in separate outfits
of grief
she was a fruit laid bare on table
see me she said
without moving her lips
or crossing her feet
and one shake
just slight and momentary
gave away
the abyss of her loss
such beauty in her then
bending over his coffin
would that he could
open his eyes just
once more
and behold her
