It is the male bird who wakes me
Every morning.
He’s telling that he is awake
And prepared to defend what is his.
A wake up call, if you will,
To any would-be predator.
I always assumed it was the females who sang
But I suppose they sleep in,
having nothing to do but
Provide vulnerability.
I met her again yesterday, this person
We probably think of each other as friends
But we just used to work together
Once when her house was destroyed by a flood
I gave her 40 bucks and felt cheap
For saving back a 20
I didn’t need paint but I walked through anyway
wanting to feel recognized
and appreciated
I said “hey, beautiful”
She gave me a hug
“You must be left-handed”
I said and she looked at me strangely
but this wasn’t prophetic
Just weird
How unbalanced and awkward
It felt to accept and return
A left-handed hug
the grain of tight
white sheets buff us
I cup your shoulder blue whisper
slip in the pool of your green eyes
your lips, inky as water, unlock
me: a well, a wheel, a womb
your body, a moon map of touchable
light, imprints mine
~ Found poem composed/modified from words in Dorianne Laux’s poem “Late Night TV”
Monday Morning
I wonder if you are sleeping.
My running shoes, wet with dew,
& cold, sloshing like I’m wading
Old Seventy Creek in them,
do nothing to remind me of you,
but the hummingbird,
hanging motionless
by the feeder,
small,
beautiful,
perfectly being itself
before the sun burns
fog
& dew
becomes the metaphor
that brings dew,
hummingbird
& you
together as my poem.
deer watch
cyclists pedal
county roads
water bugs hover
trail runners
pass
trees listen
ponytailed scouts
blue vests among trees
Loose.
That’s the word I’m looking for.
His skin is loose.
An iron frame robed in
Thick layers of meat and muscle.
“Cheesecake, baby?”
He wants to turn it down
But our little girl coos
And murmurs her pleasure
At the creamy, pungent sweetness.
“Okay, I’ll have a slice.”
At first sight, he was
Tight and taut.
Painfully nice to look at
For a woman who is anything but,
Always waiting for a firm and tender
Kali to pull him away
With her six arms
And wicked ways.
But this way,
Yes, My way,
He stays.
Round and deflated
Filet Mignon
Three days past
Its sell by date
Metmyoglobin brown
Concealing the deep
Fresh flesh red
Let any goddess take him
Who falls for his present
Like I love his present
Never having known
The apex of his virile physicality
I bought the bunk bed so’s I could finally sleep on my own again
a handsome twin over full, like new from a highschool band sale
and for three nights now we’ve all slept on the top, the very top
it’s like
these darling angels cannot be denied
for threw nights now we’ve all been cherubim a little closer to Heaven
in our top bunk, sharing a cloud
I may still lose more sleep but think of all the things I’m saving…
There are lots of things that make this funny
and maybe even slightly metaphorical. First off,
we didn’t even have sex. I am on my period
and he has depression. It’s a Monday at 6:44 AM
and my phone lets me know I will arrive on foot
at my destination in approximately one hour
and six minutes.
So far I have entertained myself
with things like typos on fast food signs and the
guarantee that the shoes I’m wearing will eventually
make my feet hurt. I take my time trying to count cracks
in the sidewalk and the different ways I can spin this
to make my friends laugh when I tell them my longest
walk of shame didn’t even involve getting laid.
this skull is lined with warfarin
and cosmic flora, the dander of
a yellow sun, debris from a big bang.
the black is bent but it sure as shit
aint broken; i’m just star grit & gruyere
and hopin’ to die here in poetry’s
non-candescent themes, like an
opened callus on a perfumed palm.
Valerian root
smells like an old, damp basement
filled with dirty socks.
