Heeney Hiny
Was Teeney Tiny
back when you were small.
She never grows said Uncle
but you were at my elbow
last visit
today you’re eleven
Over the phone we talk
teen cousins,
how they won’t play
and I say
enjoy your last bit of childhood
soon you may be
a moody teen too.
(I remember my girls
How it went in a blink
from Stay in my room
I’ll be him, you be her
Now it’s Get off,
Get out.)
Hold on to eleven
and Happy Birthday
Miss Myra
we all on separate
stages in the hurt,
recite soliloquies
to empty theaters,
only our echoes as
an audience. the pit
of loneliness,
ochestraless,
almost an illusion
under colored spotlight,
is silent as a reedless
saxophone. our songs
of pathos bittersweet
moaned into sleepless
acts with dropped lines
and missed cues.
front and center in our
anguish, we forget
about our soul, as its
eddies swirl and ebb
from one to one
each and all.
to be left alone
cannot be done,
though our pain
would cast it so,
it’s why the Bard
called his play
house the globe
Two weeks to my hysterectomy
is an event horizon.
Fourteen days to ending thirty-four
years of fertility, that weren’t, well…. fertile.
Fourteen days to ending blood-slick,
stomach-sick, knife-twist that was mostly
close to ending on its own, or so
my soul says. Fourteen
days
to losing fist-sized ovaries,
occupying so much room hunger
is a faded memory.
Fourteen days,
and the thought I woke with this morning
was, “what if I wake up screaming
that I killed it?”
i miss the dreams
of my teeth falling out
, of struggling to speak sprawling
across the floor on my knees,
gravity quicksand ether
at least I felt held
by something
The inner chamber of this dishwasher
Is as dry as Mitch Hedberg
Has been for months on end
No one is allowed in this house though
So dry it will remain
As long as a hairline fracture doesn’t develop
About halfway down my favorite drinking glass
Converting it into a serial killer’s wet dream
Iron gushing onto stainless steel…
I doubt we’ll even miss it at all, really
The customer in front of me awkwardly flirts
with the eager employee who makes her salad.
A John Green novel unfolds
as the pair quickly reach common ground
between the anime he binges
and her ripped concert t-shirt.
Although masks cover their mouths,
I sense the smiles
foresee their happy (or tragic?) future
in alert, lightened eyes
and postures moving as magnets.
While the impatient line behind me begins to groan,
I find myself thinking of you —
wishing I could tear off the mask,
cross the space between us,
let you know I want you
with more than just my words.
over night
you pierce
three miniature curving
lines of Morse code
mandibles sucking
meticulous squares
and circles
that run
in perfect parallel
to arched veins
I save and press the leaf you left
create a handsome collage of leaf, washi and silk
decoding best I can
the story you meant to tell
8:49 pm
almost special
always woman
sleek pussy
trick my feet
sleep in my bones
slink out soon
9:46 pm
milk dreams of the cat
feline full of wine
lie to your tabby on the sofa
she’s laying in your lap
12:15 am
i am your toy companion
you speak like a poet
you wish you were that vulnerable
