Under Under Milk Wood

Under Under Milk Wood

Plush, thick language smoothes

the balm of a Welsh lullaby

into my animated, agitated skin.

Waves of syllables roll over and through

my mewling soul; I've never been so owned

by a voice. He cuts his rhythm with claps

as espresso darts deliciously through crema --

cleverly cloven flicks of his tongue.

Humid beauty still breathes

and a kid gloved slap connects

with a shock and a smile.

I may love summer this year. 

Notched

Initials notched into the tree of me,
reverse of mine, this backwards life,
where mistress is master of the wife.
The letters are papercuts for my eyes
bloodless reminders of every lie
fading quickly as apologies.
If he hit me, I might leave
(I've learned not to promise or guarantee)
but she'll always be a part of me.

Surrogate for Stillborn

A surrogate for stillborn love,
I grow heavy and know
their secrets sprouted stones
and tumors. They strap me down,
smiling, they've got what they want
and it is always inside of me.
I can't even cut it open, it belongs
to them and they want it there,
swelling and surviving, heartlessly.

Summer is Gross

Maybe if it would rain, really rain,

maybe my chest would split open

and something could slide inside me.

The world is made of blunted knives

that exfoliate and irritate but never

confirm that I’m awake. Low thunder

fails to deliver and unending humidity

sits thick in clouds like bloated earthworms.

Even my fingernails are dull.

He Got Lucky

He Got Lucky

Rolled a Vegas hard eight.

Cashed a lottery ticket.

Plucked a stray eyelash.

Pocketed his heads-up penny.

Pinched a quartered clover clean.

Stole a horseshoe for his door.

Toweled bird shit off his shoulder.

Keychain crafted a rabbit ankle.

Triumphantly tore his turkey bone.

Screwed his semi-conscious friend.

Idol

I never danced with Jesus,

But Michael pulled me to him,

And I curved into his back, twenty

Years of electrified instinct.

The butterscotch texture

Of his voice stole my senses,

And the slink of his hip under my hand

Was my one true sacrament.

He was chlorophyll to a teenage stalk

Of a girl, inspiration as sustenance.

He wasn’t supposed to be mortal.

That wasn’t part of the agreement when

I stood before his pedestal, willfully blind.

His life was worth more to me than my own,

And that November he gave it away.

There is nothing fair about faith.

Winter carnivals

Each Italian town has a carnival,
just for winter, merry-go-rounds
with unlicensed Disney characters
or less than pristine Sistines
trimmed with molded plastic curtains.
I sat cross-legged on a bench, gelato
spoon clutched firmly in my glove,
as children in well-made coats toddled
headfirst toward a hilltop carousel.
In that moment, not going anywhere,
I had the unblemished freedom
of my own narration.