In Then Out (Again and Again)

There’s not much more to this.

You think so, you say so;

But it’s just one breath after another breath

And another breath after

That.

You think there’s more to this than

Cold winters and mild springs and

Swinging the same hammer at the same nail

Over, and over, and over again–

Surely, there must be more out there–

Something great.

You think you are destined for a bigger life,

But that doesn’t make your breaths

Any more interesting.

Tic Tacs

Orange bottles litter your counter and

You feel full as if you’ve eaten

But you have not, you’ve

Eaten something, yes, but not food

And it’s left you bloated and curdled,

Curling into the cushions of your sofa

Clutching your swollen soul.

You want to be free, you could be

But your throat is already

So sore– you don’t know

Where to go and only down, down

Do you flow; hands grasping

At what you know will make

You right again– if only, if only

What you knew was right.

I Think We Should Talk About Our Relationship

We don’t like to be realistic when we’re writing poetry,

When we’re writing about

Love.

We don’t like to talk bout pain and

We like flowers and marriage vows–

Because they’re almost permanent

For a time.

We like to think poets

Are great and romantic–

Because it’s nicer than calling them

Liars.

And I think, in general, we don’t like to be realistic

Because our fantasies and our histories tell us that

Love should last forever and

We don’t like admitting that,

Honestly–

Forever is too long for anyone.

Queen the Giant

I knew a mother that was not my own

From stories whispered to my ears,

To my self,

Cuddled in tan arms

In a small bed—

Tales of a mother, a worker,

A “Cook it for yourself.” and

“Suck it up.” sort of tip-top, barmaid lady

Forged in dirt and spit—

Teeth gritted—

Puts a boot in the back of the man

With the bottle in his hand—

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum,

Here comes my mother’s mum,

Queen of the spankings, Queen of the slums,

Can you see her as I did once,

Upon her wooden, scratchy throne and

Her collared robes?

I feel her in her grave,

Now, still

Restless, bones clacking

To work.

Minolta DSC

Deathbed

You’ve reached the end of the road,

And there is no reward.

There are no golden lights.

Or singing from the heavens as the gates swing open.

No “Oh thank God I made sure to attend church

Every Sunday.

 

Just you, weary and facing down age,

Looking for acceptance, looking for peace.

Watching tears track down your daughter’s face

(She’s so grown up now) and

Trying to convince yourself

It was enough.

 

But you wanna hold her hand

Just a little longer and

You don’t want to leave your wife alone

Like this, wrinkled and weak.

Because it wasn’t,

Really,

It wasn’t enough.

 

No idea who made this image but it’s not mine! Featured image: link