Two Hearts
 
Two Hearts:
he wears his carved into his chest
but bruise after bruise
grew a forest to protect
from further damage,
she wears hers sparkling on her sleeve
carelessly dangling
like the wallet
in the backpack
she never remembers to close.
 
But then his buried
found hers broadcasting,
his pillow lips
found her sharp teeth.
 
And here begins the story
of two hearts.

Your Favorite Song
 
Lovers past a certain age
meet underground
all decked out
for looking good
where lighting’s bad
 
The dj spins regrets all night
the joint is packed
with heartbreaks, loud bass,
and mistakes
this awful crowd
that we feel through
half-blinded for
the want of love
but found and bound
your lips are soft
a children’s choir
sings in hell
but soon drowned out
I ask you what you said
above the brutal noise
I ask again, you brush
against my ear to say
my heartbeat
is your favorite song…
 
I let the masses press me
to the harbor of your chest
and listen
for your own
against the din.

Been shopping this around but no takers yet so I'll post it here while it still has minor relevance... or at any rate before we're blown to nuclear smithereens... or lose our rights to post poems on the internet... UPDATE:  this one was published in S/Tick's Repeat Defenders Issue March 2018!

The Body Politic
 
The night before
the crowning
sweating side to side
my body twisted
and my blood
began to drain.
No advil stopped
the king-size stab that
stole my breath so fast
I doubled over
seized my kitchen sink…
Yes, as his motorcade arrived
my insides ripped
apart two countries
gash so wide
that none could hear
across the break,
broken as my rights will be
my organs, flesh
appraised and sold:
a messy, bloody day.
I’m glad he’ll stain
his body when he tries
to manage mine:
anointed
but my blood
is thicker
than the balm.

A poet overhears a musician and a bartender discuss an unfortunately customized wedding cocktail... UPDATE:  This poem got published in the May 2018 issue of Adelaide Literary Magazine!

Something Blue
 
Cocktails made too bitter
for their special day,
the bride’s mom cries
and cannot speak,
the band
plays songs of love
in minor keys,
loud bridesmaids
laugh and push
the bride to dance…
 
She cannot rest,
her fate sealed
with a small dry kiss,
her garter
and her last name
pulled off by his teeth,
she is something blue
but she is beautiful.
Her guests pretend
to like their drinks
while forcing smiles and
aching to be next.

I woke up this morning
in a bed
that isn’t mine
in a country
that belongs to someone else
I woke up this morning
not having slept still
hoping it was just
our bad election dream
I woke up more afraid
for my neighbors who wear
hijabs and
rainbows and
hoodies and
turbans and
skin kissed by God
and all the young girls
who don’t know any better
I woke up with my
“I voted” sticker
still hanging
on my jacket
and my suffragist-white-shirt
still wrinkled
on his floor
then I felt around a while
for where I left my heart
in this cold and rainy
unfamiliar land
but it was gone
the first of many
casualties to come.

**This poem is published in Adanna Literary Journal Issue 7, Winter 2017! Yay!

Inspired by attending the immersive performance of “The Unseen” presented by Linked Dance Theatre.
(This poem is now published in Adanna Literary Journal, Issue 7!  Winter 2017)

Witchcraft
 
Night-tripped,
Salem pilgrim girls
run beneath the stony bridge
just as the howling
city bus flies over.
Time bending
under moonlight
chasing dancers through
Fort Tryon Park
hand in hand with Lust
in cold October.
With nervous smiles
we step across a holy book
a stolen squeeze
a secret glance
subversive dance
        the lewdness of a white hand
        reaching through a lantern loop
hanging for witchcraft
hanging for knowledge
hanging for desire…
Heart pounding beside
this stranger I’ve slept with
aching to warm his
bare hands and neck
with Autumn’s old damnation.

Gray Cloudy Poem
 
Gray cloudy days
are killing me.
A water pitcher
painful-full.
I cannot move:
the heavy weight,
the fear of spills,
I must not pour
for my love drowns,
I am too much
to safely drink.
And there you hang,
malignant clouds,
two straight weeks
mocking,
threatening rain.

Umbrella Poem
 
The water bottle
is not an umbrella
still it rains
despite my thirst
           since you happened
            I forget things
I meant to grab
the umbrella
a bleak, Fall rain
           the seasons
           must have changed
           when you undressed me
now Summer’s cooled
and you have cooled
remember now
that moment when
the happy patter of
words keeping pace
the easy rainfall
of your songs
broke silent
cold
now broken Fall

Been writing again... uh oh.

Ask Me
 
 I want to open
up my skin for you
show you where
my bones connect firm
muscles to my tissues
wet with tears,
the messy heart
that beats and breaks
unschooled,
the capillaries
where my dreams
run swiftly
hot and cold,
the wilderness
of my strange roots
all tangling, pulling
your loose thoughts
to braid them tightly,
tightly to my own.

This poem got published in Adelaide Lit Magazine, May 2018!

Poem from One Knee
 
Danced with all
the dancing men
but I can’t turn
with your left hand
on my left hip
and your right pinning
my right arm
sweet sad-singing
soulful songs
into my helpless ear…
been locked down
all week long
while you work me

you pretending
you’re not even here.

Another Granny poem...

Cloud Poem
 
We can’t converse but
I can hold your hand
and listen to you
talk of clouds
whose shapes and faces
change with time
your eyes are yours
then not yours
I rain through airports
planes cut through
your clouds/my heart
you’ll soon fade off to
warm mist and ascend
your tender smile
will float above and change
and change and change
the cotton candy sky.

Holding back
my horses of affection
bridle tugging
heels slipping
in the dust of past mistakes
I want to run
headlong and with abandon
crashing through the stables
of your unsuspecting heart.

Matter:
n. physical substance;
that which occupies space.
 
Deep space, of course
is blackness
without limits
thus all mankind
came from Africa
one people
balanced on
one earth that
skates around
one galaxy
heads spinning through
fear and denial
of the right
of all humans
to occupy space
with unique
physical substance
to be seen
felt and heard
an acknowledgment
a communion
an end to spilling
bullets, blood, and dreams
turn over
a new light year
please, with greater wisdom
and more love
 
this is a poem
about mattering.