Love words, dangerous

as fairy tales should be, with death

and famine to be overcome

like a cloud melting an everlasting winter;

when you open to me, it’s

slippery and chafing, leaving us both raw

with the effort to hold something waning

as the letting go becomes creed.

He’s not a mouse in my mind;

he’s a marauder, slashing his way

downriver to render my garden insensible.

I pretend I’m a prize

and we’re not sad little figures

kicking up dust on a shelf.

He’s sure-footed and I’m carefree.

There are no tolls.

Morning wings play with sun’s rays,

dipping wildly over corn fields

and swooshing to the stream

where tails and tongues lap at dawn.

.

If a moment can be summer

and if a heart can answer to wind,

mine is held captive by small things

like moss on rock and weed behind tree.

.

Voices of reason do not count

when dew sparkles in morning sun

and it is enough to feel free

without knowing why.

I am a bruised peach.

Creased with brown pushed-in places,

almost unbearably juicy

and pink like clouds in a summer storm.

It’s been years since I felt

clean and and fuzzy.

At heart, I wonder if there’s more

than a dark stone.

My parents were young

and disheveled, which is why

I am old and disheveled, I think.

They were loosely moored/tightly wound:

‘hug everyone’ seemed to be de rigueur,

only straight As were allowed,

flannels were ok but not dungarees.

There was uncomfortable silence

when new foods were introduced.

Books were everywhere.

There was a great deal of yelling,

like the admonishment

of shitting or getting off the pot

during a thunderstorm

(“you’ll get yer ass electrocuted!”).

Homespun wisdom came from

coal mines and Campbell’s soup,

with a pinch of German deli rye.