This War

There is a cannon ball

Smoking in my living room

Where you laid siege

To my suburban battle zone

My calves are tensed

To the point of breaking

The back of my knee

Is burning

Like someone shook up my coke

Bottle with some mentos

My skin is crawling

And itching like

An addict in withdrawal

But I scratch until I bleed

And I feel nothing

After Dinner Dance

Twirling side by side

With the refrigerator

Back and forth between the sink

And stove

Your arms like bands

Around my guacamole and
Paint stained apron

There is no music

But I’ve memorized this dance

I know, by now

The sway your body goes

Across the Atlantic

I am basking in

A red Barcelona sun

Standing on the fourth

Floor balcony

Of my green and white

Checker tiled room.

A finger to my lips

and Sangria on my tongue

The rod iron smooth

under my fingertips

and I twist and twist

my hands around their

sturdiness

The morning air

Smells of coffee

Mingling with flowers

The light sweeps the night

From my watery eyes

Like a wire brush

looking down the streets below

a view of a city

I've just begun to know

The people walk with

Gentle purpose or idle perusal

Through the weaving cobbled streets

I want to uncover all her secrets

I want to replace my heart with

newness

The morning walkers’ noise

Helping me to forget

What stays quiet

Across the Atlantic.

The Usurper

I can relate
I've been imprisoned in
this skin for ages
charged with treason
When I usurped her
tragic throne
and took that bitch down
I would fix your broken-ness
build you up form this
shattered glass
I'll be your queen
I'll be your servant
I'll be your permanent band-aid
holding that gaping wound
inside your chest
I'll be the one left standing
when all the rest
have traveled distant shores
looking for something more

The Truth about Shark Bites

you tell them fifty staples
and they stare
with jaws
gaping

The Witching Hour

blue
where the moon greets
the fading day
there's something thick
in the air
like pea soup
and its swirling towards me
down the street
and taking up residence
beneath my feet
and now I have forgotten
the way back home.

The Orient of Flight

Somewhere across the sea

The sun is rising in the east

The man without any eyes

Sees the heat

Somewhere, in the upstairs

Rattling in caged defeat

Wings flutter from a window

Cracked purposefully