father takes the small
body to the back, hunches
over a shovel.
finished, the small wood
cross is the only solace
in the still morning.
Sending poetry to the world
father takes the small
body to the back, hunches
over a shovel.
finished, the small wood
cross is the only solace
in the still morning.
he, exasperated: how many
times
must i say you’re beautiful?
she hears: full
and it
creeps over her
like an enervating sickness
ravaging
the weak.
hot breath disapates
and the mantic palm reader
predicts your demise.
and in the bright dusk
a police helicopter makes us
young uninitiated ones
lift our chins
defiantly
and those worn out
sit without space
on the bench outside Family Dollar
while the weeds
thirst for cracks in cement
and outside Bill’s one woman
aged white and drunk
dials no one over and over and
over.
i know i must go
put the groceries on the belt
but here come the eyes
behind me
the cat food
the cheese
god forbid the medicine
eyes behind are
up and down
stripping me
bare.
if you should
in the trudge of
a Friday commute
come across a purple flower
think of your relatives
and smile.
look
we all have our own precious
we hold it
carefully,
carefully
someday
we will let this slip
effortless as liquid
away,
away.
that cool sensation
skin has
against bare skin
plush softness
or taut tan
the feeling
knows only one thing –
hold on
don’t let go.
i am your doll
baby you can dress me –
posed poised and waiting.