summer
falls behind
glass and sand sunset
shadows taller
our love
blue ink
unwinding
into water
maybe i could fall asleep if you would sing to me
he said, sweetly
settling under my chin
so i
who refuse to sing
allowed a nat king cole lullaby
nature boy
to fall gently from my lips
that is how i know he is the only one for me
there was a boy…
a very strange, enchanted boy…
they say he wandered very far, very far
over land and sea…
pictures of
young Virginia Woolf
cause me to weep
rivers
her features
seem as though
depression was her mother
pain her father
a mouth made to sigh
as if she knew
the moment she was born
she wanted to die
now that my heart
falls asleep full of love
it empties itself of horrors held silent
through my dreams
in the night
wounds inflicted at the hands
of a man who was never right
or worthy of sharing my bed
i pitch and scream
shaking
crying out to be let go
for justice
for my children
for help
for light
in the end
i endure
i escape
i reclaim my name
i wake
to a miraculous new life
keep a supply
of iodine and fresh bandages
if you make a habit
of trying to glue back together
broken people
you will cut your fingers
on their fallen hearts
as if they were
shattered wine glasses
happiness is
turning my moments
of inspiration
into
stream-of-consciousness
Pinterest sessions
where one may choose
cakes made from edible flowers
lavender lovely
make wedding centerpieces
from hemp rope,
vintage coffee sack burlap,
and the discarded
quilt pieces of the
Daughters of the American Revolution
my poetry waits quietly
in my pocketbook
content in my joy
encouraging me
to be my own woman
a connoisseur of literature
a goddess of wine
Dionysus triumphant
a suburban expatriate
who refuses to put a rug
on her toilet lid
born to a people who do
Kentucky
has a way about it
that feels
both timeless
and impermanent
without ever
choosing a side
sometimes
a waitress has the power
to break your heart
with her kindness
this morning
there is an 80-year-old
bringing me coffee
with the same watch yourself it’s hot care
a grandmother would
one of her legs is longer than the other
she has a special lifted shoe
and walks with a limp
i see lines deepen around her eyes
with every step
she is in pain
and has sons who don’t call
she makes me want to sit her down
and wait on her
ask her lilting southern voice
where she was
when we killed martin and each kennedy
after my bagel disappeared
i left her a twenty on the table
though i can’t afford to
pondering that no one deserves this at age 80
the word expatriate
forms a bitter lump in my throat
settling up at the cashier stand
i tell the flippant manager
with the microphone
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how fitting
that we exploded
the same november day
jackie went crawling
on the trunk of a convertible
to chase down a piece of jack’s skull
festive to a fault we were
never missing observances
or special occasions
books were written
offering
conspiracy theories
and there is still a castro controlling cuba
