From Mother to Son

paisley print black lace didn’t save her face
from flesh gnawing battery acid
that leaves knotted scar knitted
pink-armor

or stop her from walking into rooms filled
with knowledge and dark haired boys.

Now 8-year-old fingers brush brail,
bled out like the red currant all acid splashing men
ride from a woman’s womb

slick mucus spit for breath
your flesh is my flesh

your blood pumps in beat
with mine.

do not poison your Eden.

Oral Hygiene Lessons for Baby Sisters

tiny hands smear
pale pink paste
across my peeling
almond lower lip.


her sticky fingers
poke their way
inside

I don’t mind
sharp baby nails digging
trenches in the soft parts
of my mouth.

I do not mind
tasting blood,
when it’s my own
pooling beneath my tongue.

I am helpless,
hers

and I suck salty mint
muck from her offered
palm.

As I Lay Next to You

veined white wash walls
pulsed more pain
than a single house
should contain.

we whispered worries,
beautiful betrayals,
and tired truths
our minds refused to hold.

I hear
soft words
birthed slick and wailing

beneath undertones
of your labored breathing,
like honey coated thunder.

I try to keep
my own thoughts
from leaving

sweet sticky sweat
stains on these white suede walls.

you call me sugar,
with breath that slips
through parted lips.

my left hand picks
out the grey shape
of the alarm
off

morning yawns,
but I want to hear
you sleep.

Bread Day

In this kitchen,
my feet feel
terracotta tiles

warmed by last
night’s summer thick
sweaty satin heat.

Momma’s back is
unbreakable. I step
on cracks

of sun sifting
down emerald
sea glass waves

rippling slow tides
through the thin
window panes

above the tin
sink. Light filters
dust when I

lower my black
lashes, I see
bits collect on the tips

I want to catch
Every sunned fleck

I’d hide them—
Momma doesn’t much
like dust

makes her callous cream
fingertips ash grey with grit
when stroked slow

along the chilled
oven door handle’s
quiet worn edge.

In this kitchen,
It is Saturday—
Bread day; half

the dust is
flour, and I
draw her pictures

in the damp
green sunned thickness
of the air.

Lemonade Breaks While Watering Roma Tomatoes in July Teach Virtue

cupping earth crusted hands
on curved hips,
I step over
rising rows.

neck worked wet with sweat,
loose curls release collected drops
with each bounce.

lemons lick my lips
patient
like cicadas
in last spring’s pine sap
as I wait for vines to flower.

What Keeps Me in Indiana

Indiana winds exhale through fence slats on state road four
with force rough enough to scuff riding boots with bits of loose gravel.

Morning hair weaves nets of dirt dyed tangles,
snaring April’s supple weather
in wet whips smelling of lilac wax
and wood smoke.

Light brushes firm strokes from the East,
warm while I listen
to hooves drum fresh bruises into sod.

When I wake with National Public Radio

aged plum petals, pressure pressed
below bowed brown eyes belong to the woman in my mirror

cooked in her cold night sweat, she awoke
dried, preserved in pieces of stale salt.

Eve’s iron rivers bleed blue beneath bronze skin,
fortified from splinters of Adam’s brittle bones and moth-eaten marrow.

general of our earth and his
heaven sends
insurgents every seven years bearing
jubilee, knowing the proclaimed present will go untouched and unopened.

Kurds of sweet smoked cheddar’n chives toast slowly on dry Turkey,
loosely wetting
minority tongues, living off sips of thin Spring water.

NATO crackles through radio, invading my focus on soggy Life cinnamon squares with bombs
out in southern Afghanistan; the
priceless crusade payment is nonrefundable and nondeductible.

Spring 2012

While I Watch My Cat Lick the Icing From Our Wedding Cake on Our Honeymoon
“I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath


three musty roses in cloudy water—
one week old,
model sweetly for confections
coyly collected in a frosted cake corner.

the entire sterile
kitchen gravitates around the center
stamens

once touched
by your rough-ridged thumb
and tasted by my cat’s
crave-scraping tongue.

It’s cold
enough to nip tips off
fresh marzipan pink petals
with sharp white teeth,
and we three do

consume past promises
hauled in by flimsy
fishnets

I wove from the whispering weeds in
your mint green irises.