I left my womanly spirit in the bog

to be preserved in a state of punishment.

I chose to go to work and eat an apple.

Birdsong became idle chatter

and I was too busy to notice clouds.

Storms shook my insides, distracting me

from my place in front of the screen.

I noticed places in the pillars

where vermin had eaten their way in.

I couldn’t bear to look at my own parts

for fear of cracking wide open

unleashing all the tears enough

to flood the world.

I think at the end, the bog will loosen

its hold and there will be freedom

but we won’t understand the difference.

Flowers can be clipped or wild

and still carry a colorful tune.

The strings battled the legs

of the table

while he glowed

beneath sheets

watching

waiting

to see if music or sleep

would win the day.

He was so warm,

she could read him

from across the street.

His table threw her

a love song in a minor key.

with dew on clover

mushrooms spread like soggy fire;

a spider watches

The train station was magic

at first glance

with lights shining,

brass gleaming,

people streaming happily

at a different pace

from the outside.

But the digging left

a jagged scar,

a gash filled with

sadness borne of

injury and loss,

covering hurt with

sublime color and a

supreme rattle.