WOMAN

Braided buttered palms around fingered ribs
Internalized the potion I scorned
Faced war with projectile love
And spewed grace out in buckets.

Gripped calloused red lines
Stripped the clock of its hands
Waited without the pomposity
Of demand to an end.

Transcended teachings to absolve
Self.
Patient for the revelation
While kind to the process
Faithful to my essence
So to comfort the blow of truth.

Carried torture in mission
Swollen deep but distended
Hidden by hand shakes and grins.
Decades dark with tunneled transitions.
Gloved with smooth touches
That reaped rewards of failures.

Then testament birthed oneness
Eternity explained with kiss
Pain rid of value.

Admittance of recklessness for not
Having known
Forgiveness but from learning
To live after death of self
Has begun.

Being simply/
Being worn down/
Being open/
Being humbled/
Being taught/
Becoming teacher/
Being child matured
Into this being,
I've become
Woman.

REVELATION

Tossed myself into shards of a lullaby
I never knew the lyrics to.
Hummed the chorus
And cried for a lonesome
I could never verbalize
Yet aptly described
In expressions unseen.
Then rocked myself until
Morning came.

Found that it took drowning,
Body swept away in the undertow,
To swallow just enough
To quench my need for compassion.

Stumbled into a stack of wood
Laughed at the absurdly obvious realization
That perhaps it was just fire
I'd been lacking all along.

Wayside friends lacking names
By which to attach memories to,
But hers, I could never forget.
Neither could I my own.

Misery slept on the pillow next to my own
Interrupting tranquil dreams to remind me
Of the realities of life I ignored
Until I no longer was able to rest easy.

Prodded me until
I found the right person
While traveling the wrong path
Drank the half empty glass
And enjoyed the clarity of
The glass for its beauty
Rather than the utility
Of The Vessel.

If I weren't alive, alone
I would ask
If water always tasted this divine,
Though I know for me,
It just never did.

SINK

I wear a cloak,
of sorts,
woolen -
gray, aged hue
a bit irritating
to pink skin
but warm to me
on frigid morn,
knelt in prayer
for companionship.

I admit
I have
whispered my own name,
eyes closed to
invoke remembrances
of lovers
who spoke it
with lust on lips.

Bodies mauled by
touches,
sunken
and thrown.

Bottled message,
scratched with
broken pencil.
Sweet contents
long since sipped
to ease
the parch of tongue,
but no ocean
to toss
the vessel in.

Filled sink,
cold water,
bottle floats.
I revel at
training
it to swim.

I humor at this,
yet continue
before
I photograph
the foolish scene.
The curves and colors
pleasure me.

EMPTY GLASS

I looked from empty glass of wine to first sight of you.
Ascertained at once that possession of heart,
I could, with no effort, have.
Lip gloss deftly applied,
tilt of head exact
and seduction by intellectual design.

How easily you came to me.

Since double digit age,
I've had the uncanny ability
to look into strangers' eyes
and know if their devotion
I would have.
Never a question of if, only when.

Perhaps your falling in love with me
was never as much a guarantee,
but as expected, it came to pass with gentle ease,
as first I knew it would.

Emotional conveyances secured
with little effort on my part.
Gift of love bequeathed,
but no longer am I interested in retaining it.
Uncertain why it is so,
but for me the challenge is in the falling,
not in the one I felled.

I crave the challenge,
not the prize,
the race, not the finish line
and for you,
I am sorry.

There was a moment, if only brief,
that I imagined you would be "the one,"
though several numbers which preceded you
no longer count to me.

And I have grown weary of stacking
loves like fractions,
one number atop another,
with no desired sum at end.

I want to cry, but never do,
as memorial for what
could have been, but this routine
has happened far too often
for compassion to take rise,
though I recognize that it should.

So for now, I will allow for you to whisper
your tomorrow hopes on sleepy pillows
before I slip out before sun rises
to curse me for the bastard
things I've done.

And I'll pray that you
won't hate yourself
for the pawn that
you've become.

Valentine's Day Open Mic

CLASPED

Scarves numbered by baker's dozen
veil the clothing
stuffed in suitcase
cornered at hallway end.
We mention not its presence,
nor how it taunts us with the security
that it will travel,
as I can not.

Folding pink scrap pieces of
scribbled thoughts,
she tucks them
in the side pocket of my purse.
"Read these after I've gone."
Routine, after each visit,
I disturb not the
perfect paper creases.

She will cry,
softly pleading with me
to place my feet upon sands
I read of often. Carrion to instead
stay behind, cold.

First childhood memory: ten fingers
of our clasp, swinging in unison,
orange flowered linoleum beneath
tiny, chubby toes.
Charcoal memorialized the moment,
years later gifted to her
across tile topped table.
We sipped creamed tea and laughed
at the traumatic events we'd survived,
together. It hangs
upon a foreign wall,
carried in case upon oceanic waters,
beside her.

Cancer made impossible what
the heart pleads for.
Dawn will wake me, cold.
Comrade departure will
travel me back into comfort
between stanzas, alone.

Ten fingers clasped again,
I make journey promises
and she smiles.
Point of sight lowers to knees,
following the path of one tear,
the only.

I pray in inward hollows
for miracle of word kept;
to leave,
just once,
with her.