Fingers
I realize how wrong
I was to have depicted
you as being unable to remove the pain
of a bad love,
but you did. Love,
for you, was never insanity plain
and simple as scripted
for some sad love song.
You wrote your own song
with long fingers in my hair,
removing the pain,
the memory, as I recall,
of fingers that never knew
how to touch at all.
He
Was a cancer
Dug in, rooted
Wrapping tightly
Into everything
he touched,
Nary a care.
She waited
for specialists
And medication
To fix it
Make it better
Everything worked
for a moment
Then reverted
To tangles
Immobility
And pain
He
Was a cancer
Until she
Was the surgeon
Hacking away
Like her life
Depended on it
Not knowing
If she would heal
Or find his poison
Systemic
Only deciding
That whatever life
She had left
It was hers.
Coloring Easter Eggs
I loved sitting at the kitchen
table, making eggs into a work
of art, especially when the final
result was an egg of three colors.
I dipped half of one in red,
the other in “robin’s egg blue.”
The overlapping line made
a deep shade of purple.
I drew a cross on it
as a reminder of the true
meaning of Easter:
the resurrection of Jesus.
