1925

Her peach fuzz lips have supple folds,
doughy like wrinkled maple
leafs, soft-faded near the end of autumn.
Her cherry blossom cheeks, smooth vanilla cream
spreads freckled by strawberry seeds;
she always dusts his after work dessert in powdered sugar,
fresh from the Maybelline jar across the counter.

His masonry scars are deep laced;
nature’s grout barely sustains
the leather-bound knuckles
that moan and then buckle when lifting the fork
pressed delicately into her shortcake.
Rust flakes from bent elbow and wrist
as his fist collapses to her waist,
settled with the crumbs of dried frosting
waiting, to be lifted and shook off;
colleague escapees of the dusty porcelain plate.

The evening sun settling against the horizon for the night
rolls over burnt coffee curls, and arrests his eyes.
Her supple peach lips glisten, expelling satisfaction’s intrinsic sigh.

Old Weapons, Wrong War

Brick and mortar rest,
sharp weapons in dirty hands,
and she’s repairing broken walls she doesn’t remember building.

But something, something moves
closer.
Moving in with dark tides,
the moon pulls closer,
and she’s afraid it won’t like what it sees.
It isn’t pretty she screams.

The grey grit of binding sand drips from the rusted silver shield in her hand as she stands in the harsh fall winds.

Hair tossed in her eyes while she hides past lies choking on the words she cries
out

She’s begging for it to stop.

Each step falls hard,
lead pen to a page,
gripping her chain,
watching hearts break,
papers tear,
regrets fade.

Clouds move over head,
with air chilled cold as her heart, surrounding them, engulfing them.
I warned you, she sighs,
And the tools–weapons–shields,
break apart.

Lust and Love

Spring 2012, ISSN 2161-2846.

Lust and Love
I want someone to lay with me.

Run their hands down the sides of my mind.

Touch the soft curves of my thoughts and

brush against the fragile bones of my soul.

I want to be addicted.

A junkie looking for my next fix,

searching for a way to pay for my next moment, of euphoria.

I want to feel needed.

That choking feeling of hope

that someone would grab the rope

before I jump before I let go.

Because I ache for more than the surface.

More than conversation down dates

and broken hotel rooms.I want to feel real.

A rush.

Push me against the wall and tear the clothing off my heart.

I want to expose all

my dreams and fears,

without being afraid,

to fall apart.

Comb your fingers through my mind.

— Don’t let go, pull, tug!

I want to show you, everything.

I want to fall in love.