Do not speak of it.
Do not see me.
Give what you have to give,
willing or no,
and don’t mind the scars.
The remnants of your gown,
oft removed,
keep us coming back for more.
But, in time,
you will womb a tree
that reaches to Heaven.
***
[Art by Zdzislaw Beksinski]
In the wet of dream
she rides on the rocking horse,
gloves the mast of sleep.
I carry scissors
just for this,
you know.
Straddle the lacyness.
Snip snip
(at the seams, mind you).
What’s that,
a bit of talc?
Ah, but you feed me
with dream.
I lay in quandary,
ear to the cotton.
My dirty laundry
is long forgotten.
You must be my Witch
In the day, you are as plain
as day
I think you don’t see me
Maybe you think I don’t see you
but I am good at eyes
Always in your greys and tans and flats
Shiny swinging hair
Bottle goggles to discourage the shallow
You glow
from the feathers of my pillow.
under my thumb
i have felt
felt
then, enveloped
in warmth,
i have sent four soldiers
as peacekeepers,
with trimmed nails
and an artistic bent.
Looking back,
I think she was afraid
when I saw her truth.
We had never spoken,
but in the group sessions,
she surprised me
with split second glances
and strange blushes.
Then, tables turned,
I made a game
of trying to catch her eye.
Not a single word.
That’s how it goes.
…and then one night, as I walked under a streetlight in the fluttering snow, she pulled up to the stop sign in a pickup truck. Rolled down the window. Smiled and waved. I waved back, though I didn’t know who it was, or how the heck anyone would have recognized me in a winter parka. Next morning, I waited in line for a coffee at the drive-thru. As I pulled up to the window, there she was, with her half smile and eyes averted. I broke the ice and said “I know you. You drive a black Ford pickup, right?” Again, a blush. “Thanks for your order, Sir.”
The watching of bobby socks
on feet with a popcorn smell.
A shy face
with downcast eyes and freckles.
If I can coax her smile,
chiclet teeth.
Fine and white,
but tilted funny.
You drive me crazy.
I videoed you at the party.
Fifteen minutes.
Just your feet,
crossing and uncrossing.
No one knew.
I keep it secret.
Aremyfeetofftheground 