Whisper to me in our secret language

Of deep-chested purrs and rasping moans,
murmured declarations of shared hedonistic euphoria;

All the ways in which I’m yours

I spotted my first firefly of the season

Dear God,
I come to you humbly to ask,
Why must I continue off the beaten path?
The wilderness is too wild.
I appreciate the provision, all the while,
I think there needs to be some revision.
I feel I’ve served my term for the sin I’ve earned.
Lord, please grant the clarity of my concerns.
I long to suffer no more, and this plea I hope will suffice.
I thank you for your son for the ultimate sacrifice.
I trust in you, and though frustrated, praises I’ll still sing.
Thank you in advance for letting freedom ring.

Crush cicadas under my heel

Blood mixed in the dirt

Syrupy spit hanging from your lips

I watch it drop

I know how it seems

Espresso staining milk

The smell of sweat and sex

Sunshine flecks dance on our walls

I watch them sway

I know what you think

Two sides of the same coin

Baby, it was never going to be easy

Shock comes first, then pain

You were never gonna get out unscathed

Love is supposed to change you

They floated into my lower field after the big flood,

Saffron blooms covering what should be green.

They are aptly named;

Butter cups.

They rise from the fat of the land.

After much working and overuse,

They spread themselves over the surface,

And there the comparison ends.

They burn the mouth with sores and ulcers.

Perhaps a rest will crowd them out,

And release my land from their strangling hold.

HOPE for this poem is the attention it will receive
falling on the ears . . . of wise wordsmiths

a selective commentary referencing relatable writing techniques
yet, no matter what you tell me, i tend to refuse to give up easily

i hang on, pound it this way and that
twirl it like a pizza stretching its’ dough
then soften the rough edges and roughen the soft edges
and do it all over again

even sharpen lingo with an old cigarette lighter that slightly flickers not flames
an act of resurrecting numbed parts of me

like the Battle Hymn of the Republic solo i played at my first recital and put up 
with my blue collar teamster union dad’s dismay of having to listen to anything patriotic
i endured memorizing my piece

thank you for your conscious wordsmith dismantling
and/or accolades of wonder

please know, i continue to pound myself harshly
and begin all over again . . .

*** Bulgarian (n): awkwardness, discomfort, embarrassment

1.  people

It’s 12 a.m.

rule out a real orgasm
when you’re doing the absolute wrong thing 

it’s gloomy outside again
the noise off the road in my head

I speak low and stammer
because embarrassment

I walk into the store at 7 a.m.

2.  my afternoon

No one is here at 3 p.m.
the stores are far from me

So are people and someone 
I don’t hope to see, sees me

I speak low and stammer
with spaces wide as ocean liners

Off the phone at 6

3.  bed

I’ve apologized awkwardly
for being weird

No one I speak to will absolve me 
or tell me I have sinned

Therefore I have no friends

It’s 12 a.m.

my husband is waTching