Some Mother’s Keep Secret a Sacred Heart

There’s a leak from a fissure

in the heart.  Every pump opens

atriums of grace and garden roses

most radiant as they die

from their own beauty constantly

changing into something


limp and brittle.  Vestibules lining

ventricle, on the right side of the most ornamental

organ: we all know what hearts mean.  Wilted


woe of whitewashed words, she could have been

your wife. Life slips down sinew and synapses collapse

in a breathless gasp for even a moment’s peace.


Mother, How’s the Weather?

The truth is there is no single

reality.  She could be a fierce

farm girl chucking bales of hay

to get it done, cause these men take

too damn long. Everyone has a


unique perspective on how to predict

the weather. She shakes her head, Whatever,

go make asses of yourselves, but it’s a frosty day


in Hell before you make a fool outta me! 

Rancid Organs

Grasping at straws to keep

going, her heart is a split

pomegranate.  Atriums

empty.  Both ventricles

picked dry.  Cell by cell

plucked from her still breathing

corpse—all done with the tartness

tickling your taste buds, the rind

in her chest is there to rot with no seeds

left.  She drags herself to her non-stop

graveyard shift.  Your lips are stained

various shades of scarlet

by your fingers.