Going dormant for a while

I think I have a new book brewing in my skull.  Like I have in the past, I am going to post on a private email thread for this one.  If you would like to be a part of the thread just let me know.  Namaste.  I love all of my loyal readers.  Hope love and warmth are filling your lives.


Wrath of a Patriarch Not of My Choosing

How do you tell your lover, the one that is
light, air, the ether of comfort around

you about that scandal riddled slanderous

world which visits you when he’s not
gazing? This human flesh has

suffered so much maligning male matters.

How can your lover, your children, loved ones
hear of the violation triggered by the things

which make this lithe form’s little beauty? That

sometimes, I hate my own stunning light, my radiant
glow, my own mystique, because all that disdains

me. Is it understandable that sometimes

that thing you elected to love, to trust
in the end cares nothing for you. It just wanted

you ruined. There is a chance that they could see

me as a shattered pot mended by precision: Japanese golden
seams—kintsugi—the cracks become a unifying aesthetic

thread making a spectacular shimmer: speaking to breakage

then repair as becoming part of the history of me
rather than something to disguise out of disgust. Is it possible

to forgive a rapist for wanting take a beautifully broken

thing? Did he just help make it a more beautiful thing?
Or is it something else entirely incomprehensible?

Space Refracting

The space between

mine and yours, our breath

is the work of some god

we’ve committed ourselves

to forget.  It’s like being

called a shadow by cataract

eyes, she says too tired for love

poems just longing to waltz

in the creases of skin.  Schattentänzer

looks down, It’s like the perfection of

light.  How it bends—it

refracts— that’s all this

darkness is.

If Only She Had Fur

The woman awoke from a chilly

night’s sleep to see her husband

tenderly caressing their old

cat.  Tears stream away

the crust of slumber from her

lashes as she pretends to be

in the cradle of slumber until he leaves

the room holding the cat

gently in his arms.  Choking back her

silly sobs, she wipes her face

on her comforter wishing

that dumb cat wasn’t

so damn old.  The last time

she remembers him stroking her skin

with remotely the same sweet sincerity

that stupid cat was still a kitten

she was bottle feeding.