His name

I’ve been eating golden apples for weeks
and I’m still a Mediterranean shadow
lingering in Trieste
almost a hundred years ago.

Trying hard not to moan
his name out loud- the reminder
not pleasant but passion
overrides taboos.

The mangled cat told me
not to pay attention
to the bird admiring his reflection
in gutter water.

Without concern for place,
it’s easy to slip
into one skin after another,
leaving an ecstatic husk.

Surely, these things add up
to make a woman rather than ghost,
with all her quiet needs,
however invisible.



A whole world at my fingertips
and all I can think to write
is how I love the dance
of your words on my tongue,
the play of light
between your fingers and my skin,
the sweet laughter
that keeps me from darker places.

Not close enough

A rusty dangling sign
points somewhere;
he comes to me,
painted and pained;
my arms don’t reach,
but my mind is so open…
the yawning chasm
means I probably didn’t love him well;
much falls with a cracked hinge.

Red Light

A sour electric snap
of guitar
was our prelude-

our daily feast
was spread
on the sidewalk of sodom,

but there was grace
with a flicker
of a red light.