Wednesday, June 13, 2018

It's Lust That Lays You Down

scratching and grasping at the headboard,
kicking grandma's quilt to the floor, and
untucking the sheets.

Then, after, laughs at the floral
skinprint
the mattress leaves.

Lust is in the body,
of the body,
and out of your head.

It's lust that lays you down;
love
makes the bed.

For Midweek Motif~Lust at Poets United

Sunday, June 10, 2018

Dark

We mated,
plaited our hair,
and painted the cave walls eggshell white.

Stars rose,
fell,
did stints in rehab.

We constructed fine cathedrals
to house our candles -
let there be light!

Now,
we pine
for authentic dark.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

You Are Beautiful

For six days there's been a boy
a delicious man/boy standing
on the sidewalk at the fuckiest corner
of my early morning commute.
He has a headful of thick, dissident curls.
His legs and arms are finely
muscled. Across his chest,  he holds
a big hand lettered sign:
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL
Drivers honk as traffic crawls
through the intersection.  I honk, too.
I wonder who he is and why he is.
I wonder if he'll be there tomorrow.
If he is, I might stop this car forever
and give him my face.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Asking

asking for patience
              hurriedly
blessings
             for a half full cup
guidance not followed
             to follow me
forgiveness
             for what's left undone

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Magdalene

Melpomene-Simmons-Highsmith-detail-1.jpeg

Detail from mural depicting the muse Melpomene (Tragedy) by Edward Simmons, 1896

All of my favorite witches were staked and burned to bones.
This red dress is the best of the cottonmouth curses
from those pale, open mouth orchids - oracle tongues
in nightshade knots.
All gods work in threes -
a thrice dyed sleeve slipping to bare
a shoulder -shapely, shaping, shape 
shifting - maid, mother, crone.
I have strayed, skipping, from the straight and narrow and learned
to love the log in my wandering eye.  My Magdalene side
makes merry with forgotten gospels and dreams
of a desert man.
A desert man with strong, laborer's hands.
A man who knows that water is for walking,
but weddings call for wine.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Sunday, May 6, 2018

Silence

Silence is the blue note,
the only honest pitch.
I think I hear it when I'm dreaming,
but, awake, I can't seem to pry it
from my hateful head.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Friday, May 4, 2018

An Elegy For Absolutes

"I am my own muse.  I am the subject I know best."
 - Frida Kahlo


Dreaming is waking is dreaming.
I am a small world - my own animal -
unnamed -
Adam's twisted tongue.
I once stood as a pillar of salt
curse your transgressing eyes!
and prayed for rain 
to melt me back to mother,
but drought showed me her back -
I had to break
to be a woman
and burn
to be a woman
and bleed the best of me
with every moon.
I suckle my second finger
like a child and do not wince
at the taste of old ore.

Reality rests before my eyes, always
colors of prayers
white washes of skin
greens of my own growing.
I have swallowed the common
sight and spit sweeter 
visions into these hands,
these little gods.  They are tireless
at creation.  They give form
to my face.

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads