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.

The Summer of the Humming Bird

In the summer of the hummingbird, 

I could sit on my back patio swing

in the early morning sun,

and watch two humming birds

dance atop a sugar feeder.

 

The copper lighthouse swayed 

with soft winds and

the cherry nectar drained

while the dancers drank the wine.

 

They chirped and hummed

along to the morning birds songs,

and the hot sun bared down as it grew.

And we watched in awe.

 

A violent hum in the air broke 

when the dancers parted ways.

But we refilled the golden feeder

and the lovers returned each day.

Child

He scrapped the cheese

off his home baked pizza

and gave up

half way through his organic low fat milk

and said, I’m just not that hungry tonight.

His eyes scraped the ceiling

while I folded metal paper

over left overs

and I remembered how it was to be 9.

10 years my mind rewinds

and I’m sitting in his chair

rocking and waiting for mom to come home.

The tin crinkles in my hands

and I remember falling

against chain link fences that lined playgrounds.

At almost two decades old

my mind plays memories

like a movie against my skull

and nostalgia like monsters crawl

from the corners of my soul to drag me further.

He gets a piece of scrap paper

and I’m enveloped as I remember

3rd grade love letters I never gave out.

The energy never ends

and we both grab out heads

while the foil beneath my fingers crinkles

and he screams at himself.

He says his second soul takes over and makes him sad sometimes.

I tell him my soul likes to write.

He asks if he can play outside; the rain dragging

in streaks of red wine against the window

in the setting summer light, and I tell him,

maybe another time.

Summer 2013

The warmth
of the sun in the sky
and on my skin
is reflected in the white of my heart
and burning my eyes
on your smile.

The sand in my shoes
between my toes
scrapes scars into freckles, falling, forgotten.

Soft winds embrace us.
The winter in our hearts has gone.