Friday, March 30, 2012


The truth is,
you like the way he used you
and did not find you delicate and kept you awake
with the spare change of his mouth.
He called you goddess
and you believed him,
his hands pressing your knees
back to the wall,
crippling your expensive words
into stick figures.
You liked feeling his need for you
in the tight knot
where his belt
bullied your skirt
and the way the sky went empty
when he touched you
became your religion;
but the stitches in his heart
tripped up your feet
and broke you like a vagrant
who crept low
under the dimming stars.

Thursday, March 22, 2012


I feel you in my fingertips
far removed from the sterile magic
of the day's long end
the pale drone of traffic in rain
and soft confusion of streetlamps
bleeds to puddle grey
where light refracts
your shadow on the glass
and startles the night sky
with yearning.
I long to run my fingertips
down your nose
and bridge your lips
like psalms sung out of tune
and let the rhythm of your mouth
take root in my palms
and grow into something

Monday, March 19, 2012


His smile
wasn't the sort of thing
you wanted to mess with
when it crawled over his face
and pulled the corners of his mouth
down like pincers
crab mean and splintered

It sort of went slack behind the eyes
and reminded you
of the fetal pigs
you used to dissect,
pulling their slick webbed bodies
up out of the formaldehyde
and slapping them
wet on the glass

And when he whistled
you could see the end of the world
flicking off his lips,
with cigarette smoke curling up,
beading the blue of your night
with the sweet taint
of asphyxiation.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Fall

He tempted her
with wanton riddles and guessing games
ripe skin
and tender fruit
that burst on her tongue like summer.
He made promises in a looking glass -
beautiful glints of good and evil
that grew in her secret garden
among succulent vines
and thick bristling thorns -
and whispered tricks of light and dark
in the soft cleft just behind her ear.
He insinuated himself
like an acrobat
in the fertile spot
between her thighs
with caresses so intimate
she wept,
and spilled his venom like seed.
And in that moment,
she felt her mouth break
and dark wings beat inside her bones.
She knew colors
and tasted secrets
that tore her tongue like nettles.
She felt the thick heat
of tears behind her eyes
and suddenly understood
the unspeakable silence
of falling.

Monday, March 12, 2012


The meadow beckons
fresh arrival of morning treasure
spilled out in a bright pastel haze
where moss green breathes with ochre
and pinks and lavenders
nod their lazy heads
and touch the wind with fragrant wings.
warmth steals through soil and roots
and winds up stems and trunks
bursting in new shoots
and gasps of color
that spatter the air
in a riot of fresh hope
newly wrapped and delivered
to the waiting world.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Serial Boy

You never were very bright
mama said
as she boxed his ears
and served him another helping of corn pudding.
The boy never said a word
just continued to smash peas
with a dirty fork,
watching the tines pierce their green skin,
and burying them
under a river of gravy
that ran down the greasy plate.
But his eyes never left mama's face
as his fork tapped the chipped formica
and he felt her sickly sweet smile
roll down his cheeks
into the gravy
caught under his lip

Thursday, March 8, 2012

I Love

I love how
you fit between my shoulders and thighs
and your mouth tastes like treason
when your dress hits the floor
and my hands run down
under the heat of your covers.
I love how
your skin unhitches under my touch
and you call me impudent
when your tongue catches mine
and my thumbs press
over the sharp thrust of your hips.
I love how
you christen the night with eloquence
and then slide down my skin
when I can't find the words
and my body aches
in the sweet pause of your free fall.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


Lose yourself in me.
Be the unbidden thought
that follows me to bed.
and tosses my pillows
into dawn's lingering traces.

Be the gentle wager
I make with the night,
the ravage of stars
that follows me until
I can make peace with the dark.

Be the first tumble of dreams
that steals into my mind
and unravels me in eiderdown
while the day steals from my limbs.

And when morning breaks promise,
be the first touch of aurora
to brush against my skin.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

The Witching Hour

Th The lost hour of black magic
that trails the rough edge of midnight
when the moon seduces those
whose limbs dance and twitch
like fingers pricked on spindles,
and sleek, supple demons
polish apples and spread their wings,
perching on flecks of amber
to tangle the dreams of lovers.
Desire tightens in a catch of silk,
rippling over the bed clothes -
capturing your cries and whispers.
Buttons open like ragged wounds,
spilling soft pleas of want;
and the sweet torture of skin
pressing skin becomes a music
that leaves you unnerved.
You taste shadows in your mouth
and the bright smoke of memory,
as dark coils like a braid of jet
to blot out the stars and candles -
holding you a willing captive
deep inside the witching hour.