daughter

if an angel were with skin, this is the skin she’d be in

and it gladdens my heart that he was there

with his red plaid falling in love with you

when you were tired of running

you thought we’d be abandoned

but, look at us dear, we’re still standing

I admire your spirit, your laughter

your view on this entire situation gone mad

the way you send prayers to stop me feeling sad

so sad, which confirms my thinking

that if an angel were with skin

it’s your skin she’d be in

mannequin

she was like a moodier jennifer lawrence,

so many freckles i couldn’t even tell her tone,

but i liked her face.

never saw her flip a smile but noticed

her gasping every once in a while,

and she never moved, even when that

fly landed right on her eye.

she was skilled at wearing her tattoo

as a watch. mastered walking in stilettos

near the water on the rocks.

she had cheekbones that would make your

ancestors drool green

and

she lit up the page with a gaze,

eyes cold and mean.

l’oiseau

after it tempted me with its stalky teasers

showing me its many scarlet hats

I saw her camouflaged behind the leaves

dull brown hiding her ruddy brown

with her head looking down

I heard her call out a song to distract me

then watched her fly away

broke my heart she didn’t want to stay

led

brown tipped moth led the way 

past the swamp, the marsh, the murk.

away from the swarm of ink

waiting to envelop me.

it led the way past the squished 

garnet worms beneath my 

cardboard sneakers, me 

whispering sorry

past the house with the 

flamingos in their pool, 

past the party, the envy, the fools. 

brown tipped moth led the way 

and I followed, inhaling its dust 

past the chatter, the damage, the lies. 

away from this flock of fear 

and

away from thinking there

must be better than here. 

shower

you’ll never know what secret thoughts I think,

entertain; as my eyes match my fogged up

window.  catch myself against the side to

keep from falling; falling from all my damn

sobbing.  secret thoughts to make this hell end.

awful thoughts, selfish thoughts.  the banana

leaves try earnestly to shake me from my

disturbing trance.  those distant violins

try to keep me awake.  they beg me to

follow their sorrow, but they have no clue

what’s in store for my crazy tomorrows.

you’ll never know what secret thoughts I think;

dark thoughts that would make you run, make you sink.

chill

A few days ago she held the branches like a parasol – shielding her face from the heat she once loved, lived for even.  This same woman used to plant her face against the icy window on a February afternoon – just to sense its glow.  Close her eyes and envision the red.  Remember the way grass felt under her bare feet – lick her lips recollecting the smell of water leaving a garden hose.  Mutter under her breath, wishing winter to leave – she was sick of seeing dead leaves.

This woman now settled in the place of perpetual summer – feels the all too familiar chill to her bones.  She puts on extra layers while the lizards lie like statues at her feet. Watches the hawks bounce on the January winds and forget that she is driving.  Digs out her grandmother’s quilt from her closet (the quilt of pale random squares, playful tufts of thread, and white downy backing), and she will remember the sweet dreams of her youth.

Winter found its way to her, and she just wants to be warm again; be happy again.  She wants to remember what hopes brought her to the land of palms.  Stop cursing the march of time.  Mutter under her breath, and wish winter to leave – she was sick of certain memories.  Be grateful that her winter really isn’t winter; except for right now.

ghosts

washed ashore, no breath left.  rocked to death, their

life emptied into the torturous sea

that swallowed them.  promising them lives, but

it brought them back against the wood, against

the rocks.  their pale faces charred from the sun,

their thinning brows white with salt.  their hopeful

black hair tangled with the splinters, their bones

rattling, their bones done.  I pray God saved them,

even if they didn’t believe.  please let

there be some mercy in that mystery.

but I’m afraid there are more coming,  more

running, being chased, fearful, while ever

so mournful.  lost ones being swallowed up

by the sea, washed ashore with no breath left.

la manie

it’s nothing, it’s everything

it’s the stuff fraying at the edges

it’s the goo left in-between

 

try to outwit it, run and escape it

but it’s clever, it’s faster

go blind when that mania warps shit

 

it’s nothing, it’s everything

the ailment that’s in your brain

leaving us stuck in-between