Monday, June 24, 2013

How to Survive the End of a 22-Year Marriage

Lean over the rail and drop it.

Make sure you’re plenty high
because there are things to do
before the splash.

Drop it and shake-out
your hands and arms,
let them get used to the lightness.

Look over the rail;
beware the dizziness
and the urge to jump after.

Linger a bit; watch it turn small.

Now is the time for crying
if you think it will do you any good,
but do not lose track of time.

Here’s where things get difficult
and take real nerve. Reach around
into your back pocket; grab hold of your knife.

Raise it right up to your throat,
so close you can feel the blade
scrape with every dry swallow.

Hold it there and watch
as this thing you released continues to disappear
until it just touches the surface

and the line between you and it turns taut;
just then, jerk the blade sideways –
cut the noose.




Shadow Road Quarterly - June 2013

Sunday, June 16, 2013

There’s a Slow Leak in Me

There’s a slow leak in me
that hisses like a barn cat
warming the only spot left
for the last bale of hay of the day.

It winds all the way through
me like poisoned blood
marking the path of least resistance
on its way to this flabby deflation

in my chest that refuses to stop
pumping the waste of sunlight
and love I have become. She hears
it, too, says it sounds like the sigh

of coffee brewing in the morning
and is louder than goodbye kisses
or the crinkle of a brown paper bag
heavy with last night’s leftover dinner.



Boston Literary Magazine - Summer 2013

I Told Her, “It Must Feel like a Curse Sometimes,” and She Looked Back to Say, “It’s Really Bad When I Work It”

Her perfume lags behind,
turns masculine minds
inside-out.

She adds just enough dip and sway
to her relaxed sashay, refuses to turn
to see who sees.

Her walk is a shape poem, visual art
without abstraction, metaphor, or simile.
It is a divinity of simplicity,

making boorish Bukowski stammer,
“Alas, what angel are you that hath passed
just by?” Alas, indeed!

Her walk has power enough
to straighten Whitman into a wolf-whistle
and Ginsberg into a howl.



Boston Literary Magazine - Summer 2013

Saturday, June 1, 2013

The Missing

The missing started early today,
as soon as the last loop around
our cul de sac for a final wave goodbye
and a few blown kisses from that bay window
I keep forgetting to wash.

I turned left and sullen
behind the forced squint of driving into
the still-low sun and the prospect of spending
another day being far too far away from you.
This will be another low-production day

of back and forth texts that make you giggle
and make me want to come all the way back home –
like that one time not too long ago when you met me
at the door in the heat of the day wearing nothing
but a short yellow sundress and knowing what you know.



Rockhutst Review - Spring 2013