Posts for June 27, 2018


Am I logged in?

I can’t get past my own mind
or unharness my heart.
My wit is sheathed
and my humor only wants to take
I have a million
lists of to-dos 
with daily carry-overs. 
But the beat I hear
and can’t shake away from
is summer


Honestly, My Littles Should be Thankful for My Eight A.M. Appointment 

Honestly, My Littles Should be Thankful for My Eight A.M. Appointment 



I got my Genius

3D Mammography

exam today (once

called a mammogram).

And the technician  

gave me a sticker,

only instead of a small

oval I voted today,

it reads in a larger 

teal circle:  I got my Genius

3D Mammography

exam today.  With my family

female history, it’s imperative

to follow through every year.


And for the record—

there was not a thing Genius 

anywhere.  Neither the teck

nor I qualified as Geniuses.  

The smashing machine, 

operated by the technician,

therefore was disqualified  

from attaining Genius status either.  

Perhaps Starfishes or Anxieties 

are more appropriate statuses. 


Hold your breath; breathe;

hold your breath; breathe.

4x.   And then I wait anxiously

for a call back or a letter in the mail.


But I will say the whole 

ordeal was less of an exam 

and more of an experience.

The smaller your (my) breasts

the more it hurts, I repeat:

the smaller the breasts

the more it hurts—there are

two breasts after all.  And my 

littles aren’t Genius 

at this testing thing either.


After such an ordeal

Reward! Reward!

I took myself shopping

and made a sumptuous lunch.




Melva Sue Priddy


Measuring Time

Measuring Time

He used to measure time
by how many cigarettes
he had smoked and the
miles between oil changes.
Now, it’s the number of laps
he’s walked around the block
and the places the meter maid
has chalked on the tires.


If I could, I would.

If I could, I would illustrate the scene as it came alive to me. If I could,  I  would sketch the full-figured woman. In her soft floral print dress. In her delicate little twist. Elbows on the blanket. Chin in hands. Full attention forward. Hat rides low, exsensuating her attractively bulbous nose. Joy present in her subtle smile. He stares on – one eye toward the field ahead, one eye in her direction. Feeling equal parts a sense of protection and sense of satisfaction in her joy. If I could, this is what I would draw for you.



In the play, you starred,
your voice and manner perfect,
so sweet you changed me.


Worries’ Beads

If I could string my worries like beads
arrange the mismatched palette of forms
to a gratifying yet surprising pattern  

I might choose to wear the bracelet
rub beads’ pointed edges smooth
shine them with traces of day’s rhymes
ice them when they fume and swell
threatening to bruise one another  

I could leave them home one day
to tangle in a waiting box  

or stand mid-bridge and break the string



the girl has given up
on packing
and labeling
and sorting
and putting things in place.
on organization
and concentration
and efficiency
and want.
on throwing open windows
and breathing in old air
and pretending a different place
and different people
and different air 
will solve all her problems.
so the books remain
the boxes stay
lined up like soldiers
waiting for command.
the girl lays down
and takes a nap 
and stops thinking about tomorrow.


disintegration in bloom

Quantum ascension
toward the azure welkin frontier
graven equation

Slow motion snapshot
opium dreams spoke blossoms
devastation rift

Suspended crystals
solar disintegration
in bloom, a cycle


Unexpected rain storm

The rain
blurred into
my eyes

and the 
of blindness

was sweet. 


Diet: Day One

Cookies begin their mockery of me.
They look at me up and down then laugh at my stare.
Cake stands before me and laughs at my suffering saying
He just thinks its funny how I wouldn’t give him a second look last week
But all of a sudden I want his attention now that I can’t have him.
He rather go where he’s appreciated.
I wonder if there’s anyone out there for me now that I have my restrictions.

These internet doctors are just certified conspiracy theorists.
They insist bread will pump me with carbs
And fill me up until I burst.
They’re convinced health properties of milk was pure propaganda
told by the government
They want me to know that my whole wheat life is a lie.
They want me to juice cleanse myself of all impurities
But what’s wrong with being a little dirty sometimes.

My mom wants me to deceive my body.
She says Cauliflower can be mashed potatoes if I believe
Or it can be rice if I use my imagination.
Apparently, Zucchini can be pasta just because it looks like pasta
And coming from a woman who refused to allow me to believe in Santa
That’s richer than a classic cheesecake.

I try to stay supportive.
I keep my knowledge in the back of my mind
As I allow myself to comply by these rules
But I wait for the day
When I will be reunited with my one true love
Once again.