Tuesday, January 24, 2012

morning

morning

after her wife is gone
her husband
the stranger that was in her bed
after the first bus has gone
carrying the children
more coherent than her own
white light flashing a rhythm
more steady than her heartbeat
in the fog

and before she remembers
to take the next breath
the second bus has come and gone
and the girl
leaving her to wonder
if she made it all up

inside
she puts a load of laundry in
turns on the blessed cool
of winter air conditioning

slips between sheets
unstained by sex

Friday, January 13, 2012

chipped paint

she looks
at the power
welling
under her broken fingernails
and the chipped paint
that was silver

looks
at the broken world
she could mend

fuck it
she says
putting out
someone else's cigarette

she goes back inside
turns on the tv

today she'll be like you

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

last years

"there are no more last years,"
he tells me
"we're all out."
but he promises me
a hundred more new ones
after this

"last year."
she's obsessed
"remember last year?"
she asks
"we came here last year."
(last week)
"i remember," i say

"remember our wishes?"
she asks
"all last year's wishes are gone.
our last wish was a Christmas wish."

she doesn't say
if we get new ones
for this year

jasmine blooms

i imagine
God at His kitchen table
staring down
at universes spread like cards

seeing nothing good in His reading
He shakes His head
and with one deft magician's hand
sweeps them back into the deck

perhaps He'll try again
after tea
after His jasmine blooms