Sunday, March 19, 2017


now and again
i shave my legs
blade scraping off
layers of skin
til i bleed

hair and soap
remorse and blood
swirling down the drain

as if to say
one day it will be spring

Friday, March 17, 2017

the only worth all granting

i cannot conceive
the empty grave
when yours lies
full as my womb
with the child
bearing your name

God lives in
secret parts of me
no longer touched

come home
fuck up my shopping list
let me eat smooth
organic peanut butter
and deli counter olives
drink your sloppy
salt water kisses

fuck up our bed

maybe then we'll talk
maybe then
we'll touch on
God and me

Sunday, March 12, 2017

staying in bed on lent ii

a meditation on things continuously fucked up

the moon was full last night
my daughter's blood boiled
she paced the hallways, frantic
i trailed behind her,
mumbling about hot milk

i sat up, waiting out her moon madness
revisiting old wounds, i stuck my fingers in
the agonies in my own side and hands
truly, this happened, and i lived?

she fell asleep around seven
i didn't have the heart to wake her

in the morning she dreams
i sit in bed, and ought to sit in church

between one sunday and the next
my sins pile up like the bottle deposits
overflowing their bin in the kitchen
they spill across counters and shelves
they lay forlorn by the door
waiting their chance on redemption

how can i repent and be new
drink the blood and eat the flesh
lie in my lover's arms and in his bed
when i can't even seem to get out of mine?

Sunday, March 5, 2017

this desert my heart

he looks at me like someone
who remembers the last time 
we went to bed
like really went to bed

and i can almost not take it
the way his eyes stick
dragging over my breasts
my thighs
my lips
so heavy
it leaves me slick 

dissanta beshemen g'viyati 
but do i spill over?
i am a vessel contained.

he remembers other days,
as he knows them all
when only saying my name
would spread me out like the sky

he remembers when i screamed his name
but now in this wilderness
my tongue has lost the vowels

i am reduced to consonantal silence
i tear about in the gale 
neither going nor coming

rutzeh ahuvi l'hatzileni 
ahuvi l'ezrati khushah 

my rebellion is my own
ha'midbar ha'zeh 
hu ha'lev sheli

Thursday, March 2, 2017


i am my father's daughter
and my husband's widow
i hit the bottle
and i hit the trail

lies men tell

it's the idea of us they love
wedding themselves to a notion
the girl with the red lipstick
the dancer, the harlot, the grieving
men display their lust like peacock feathers
all a show for our attention

they would rather describe us than fuck us
getting off on our imagined virtues
while we read in bed alone