I am the product of my environment and ingredients.

I want to take my fetal soul and crush it in my hand,

a wadded tissue,

drenched in snot in tears

from tried and tired love.

My late great-grandma

would just as soon

spread it out to dry

so it could be used again, claiming,

“It’s still good for one more use.”

Published in: on March 27, 2011 at 11:45 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Yellow glow

You look like winter’s cold, dark night,
manicured ice lawn,
round boxwoods,
shoveled walk
porch light off.
Yet I can see the warm yellow glow
on the windows
of your soul
I wipe the fogged windows to peek
at the cozy interior
your Id dining on roast chicken and wine,
And I want in.
Wringing my hands,
I pace,
pondering the most appropriate knock.
I could beat on the door.
Too abrupt?
I could ring the bell.
Too formal?
I could tap in the rhythm that lets you know it’s a friend.
Am I that close?
I spell my care with a pebble to the window.
And then at last I hear
an infinity of unlocking.
I don’t think you’ll let me in,
but I know you’re curious who came
even if you plan to send them away.
If you were so private,
your lights would be shut off,
shades drawn,
doorbell unwired
walk unshoveled.
But I see you now,
behind that screen.
If I tell you
how I’m shivering,
how I can’t feel my toes
how I’m gonna die out here,
maybe you’ll invite me in.
I want your fire.
Published in: on March 9, 2011 at 12:22 am  Comments (1)  
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