I fade for him

Like the belt buckle--
cinch and squeeze the belly,
the breath. Leave no trace of
last week, last night's supper--
the wine, the wooden table, the
soup like sweet and sour.

This is the concern, this is
the same pickle my godmother
couldn't get me out of years ago.

you can break everyone's neck

It just takes time, one
mistake after another, and
soon each bone is snapped--
torn and irreplaceable.

Mary had a little lamb

and I took it to my bed,
took it for my own. Clothed
in white, killed by firelight.
Mary searched her roof, found
the tub empty-- my stomach full,
bloated with wool.

sorry

The rain and I reflect in
light, by the lamp post
in winter, where a Lucy stands
searching. But I'm a Susan--
disbelieving every word, every
time You speak.

long distanced

I'd rather not--
I'd prefer to--
wet my lips and watch
you watch me.
I might turn to you and
say, "pretend this isn't happening."

better for Sodom and Gomorrah

Today the city, tomorrow
the salt-licked woman musing
about dirty dishes in the sink,
and a doormat needing sweeping.
We each have a vice-- the bit of pickle
left floating in the jar, the piece of
kernel caught in teeth-- we pick
and pick and say, "Enough, I like it there."

I am not my own

Release the grip; drop the pen.
The crawl instead of the climb.
A picnic invaded by ants--
be carried, be swallowed whole.