Royal

Ruminating beside
the torches, walling
darkest corners,
leaving orange where
before
was nothing
but secrets and age.

King passes slowly
when he passes
breathes deeply
to remember
when orange
was brighter under
the gaze of
dimming
eyes.

Queen takes
detour to walk solely
in rays of
sun---
the sun Queen, she
once was---
and, when night swallows
blue, she
settles for the hues of
moon.

Prince drinks red wine,
tucked privately with
ladies in
always
waiting
who smell like spring
and are soft like the pillows
he rests his Princely thoughts
on at sunset,
breasts like pillows
of resting for Princely
thoughts. 

Princess has bags
beneath her baby eyes
and sickly skin
and ruminates beside
the torches, walling darkest
corners,
leaving orange
on her face where
before
was nothing.

King passes slowly
when he passes
and touches Princess
hand, peach and
soft, and Prince
quiets lady when the
King breathes deeply--orange
on his purple robe--King
knows what Queen
cannot see
by the bright sun and
white hues
of moon.

Princess prays to be
a vicar when she's aged,
but orange
and torches and
ladies do not find
God when they are
meant to find
throne.

give it a year

Clarity came shining through like
the middle of July,

telling me -- just what to do -- just who
to do -- 'just June?' you say.  

That faded day she turned away
and I laughed like May--all day

until April showers woke me
up and flowers from the

March-ing band at the
band-stand, moms with gerber daisies in hand

chanting for the boy whose
Valentine gave up February

for his coked out New Year's
kiss. Hers were

the bruises tainting Christmas
eve, leaving space for

the place at the Thanksgiving table, recycling
--for pies-- the pumpkins from Halloween.

Nothing happened in September.
Nothing ever happens then.

The sun burned and kept on
burning like August thirty-first

on freckled skin and a dimpled
chin, lobster pink and

shimmering like we're back
to the fourth of the July.

dishes

she has to walk into the kitchen
               barefoot in the kitchen
to find the cup of coffee you left yesterday
                                                                  that she never thought to wash
                                                                                                                                                   cracking

 pots of alfredo sauce -  your favorite dish - stacked in the sink

she used to think

if she could get it right (or just alright) 

that

when you would stop by 

at night

you might stay

the night

all through

til light

when she could make you another cup of coffee 

that she would 

                        conveniently 

                                             not think to wash

for a while

trying to write the light
all night
            trying to get it
            right.

memorizing the way your shadows
shaded something that seemed
already to be
so dark--
too dark to see.

and your voice
and your laughter
pushing against and after
the falling lids

as breathing hardens into
softness and relaxes
into the right
night light
can't seem to write.

whisper:
keep finding bits of you
in pockets
in spaces between my shirts
                                    sheets
in drawers
where you hid before

needle point
stop and start
give it a shot
give up your heart--

Juvenile

Life is an endeavor of love, mess, and opportunity

so cheer up and make worse choices. 

i found my words

Your water glass hasn't moved--couldn't 

move it after 

you left. Sitting where you sat,

trying to make stills in my still-less head

trying to see myself without my glasses

I drank every drop of tea 

after it had gone cold

& thought of the taste 

of it you might have tasted

in my mouth. 

Luckily I'll be there--in your mouth--

for months. 

He, she, it, we are dancing 

in between each of 

our teeths. 

Patronizing and saint-like 

as you promised something 

like I didn't already know the way it burns

when I watch you leave. I've been here. 

I'll always have the note 

and the noose on my throat 

because a circular part of my 

unclassified structure of actualizing 

believes in destiny

& I wonder when I see you 

if maybe mine is 

a one-way street 

that dead ends at the 

highway of you

without an on ramp. 

The phone call I will always be waiting for

is ringing like a bell 

against the click of your turn signals

and the burnt out tail light 

and the smell of cigarettes

you always managed 

to leave on 

my hands. 

It cannot get much better 

when you leave me with 

my thoughts 

and they are all that 

has ever kept me 

from you