My gifts of tenderness
and vulnerability
are flawed
but there are moments
when the sidewalk
stops rolling
beneath my feet
and I’m real-
without anyone’s
projection
of worth.
It’s fleeting, of course
as there are dues
to be paid
so I follow… as I do;
flowers will be ignored
whether I sing
or swallow the song inside me.

The portrait was flat, with dimensions
spreading thinly across the canvas.
Her breasts looked like a splayed palm,
with fingers and fist cursing gravity –
all in tones of blue.
Her face looked like a sucker punch.
But with a hint of twinkle, like the one
she must have had as a girl,
before the rancid whiff of regret
piled up in the corners of her mouth.
Her hair was a silver lining
and her grin was skeletal yet endearing.
He caught her looking just beyond him,
where the hills were green and the sun
was a perfect circle
and birds made the light dance in her eyes.
She waited for him to say, “I see you! I do!”

Dreams are currently crammed
in small spaces along with
tiny joys of
finding adequate shoes over lunch break,
having figures balance happily
like little birds on a wire in spring,
and inhaling whatever is in the air
on a twinkling December afternoon.
I bemoan my choices, my genetics,
and a wildly energetic imagination
that often keeps me out of the
moment,
but some afternoons,
like this one,
I’m not worried or afraid.
Maybe there’s no room for fear.