When the endings end.

Endings still hurt, though she has had her fair share, and surely a thin layer of protective numbness should have moved in by now? This ending still hurt, a hard-packed snowball hitting a naked and bent spine. Was it the cold of it or the punch of it that caused her to shiver? Even the memory of warm whispers (a lyric, from a song, from a playlist, on a device) cannot combat the icy abrasions from these April storms.

Endings still hurt.

Dinner in autumn.

*This piece was purchased and has been published elsewhere, however I retain the rights.

A work bell pushed a peal and she

She ran fourteen blocks onward home

Home where they agreed to meet

Meat and candied beets, repast’s entity

Hurried home where she longed for him

Long foreign doorbell hummed at eight-oh-ten

(ate meat and candied beets)

He came nodding with his sly fox style

Smile, but do not touch her amber hair

Her hair not done and those are hot rollers

Hot, rolled her onto the stair

A wolf feasted on meat and candied beets

Eight weeks later he took his leave

Leaves and grass and hands gather round

Rounded belly thrum and beats

Beets, sugared, and warm meet



Lament for a Recorded Affair
*This piece was purchased and has been published elsewhere, however I retain the rights.

For you it was one lifetime about such lifetimes
You were motivated by what people term “soul mates”
Something you didn’t have with Joanna, but then
It’s rare, this connection, you went on and
Your new young lady horded it in the moment
Payment tossed to her by means of a line

She laced a little book to record these matters
An advisor inside told her that lifetimes expire quickly
Rotton-sweet words and body motion sink into memory
The book filled up inkwise, and when she closed it
You had gone elsewhere to think and so never called

It’s been near a decade and she recalls
Little snatches of the cloak-and-dagger meetings
Naturally your hair had foxy grey character then
(Twenty years old and she thought it charming)
But you loved your good reputation and so would never leave

Let me into your reputation, she plead, but you wanted
Darkness and legs moving and a mouth anew meeting yours
She gave her mouth and legs and what dark places she had
After this you went home to Joanna and read, forgetting

Well, there was the diary but she lost track of it
We figured it all got recorded in her bones


A flight of stairs.

A paralysis sets in, and she is the force that caused it. The most clawing time she can remember, hands bloodied as they claw against the coarse granite of the slopes around her. She cannot get a handhold, she cannot stop the falling, either.

She fell down a flight of stairs, and she took too many painkillers for the bruising. In that woozy place between pain and intoxication, she decided to try passion. To try spontaneity.

She cannot get a handhold.


I wish I could write.

The winter presses up its face against the window, and even with the thermostat set to 78 degrees, I can’t pretend its not there. Seeping in through the ducts, fissure cracks, and musty screens that should have been replaced years ago.

I wish I could write better. I wish I could be Ellen Gilchrist for a day, writing about dreams and sad old actresses, about people trying to impress one another with how sane they are. I wish I could write.


That wasn’t her type of thing and that certainly wasn’t her type of person. New Year’s Resolution #14: Listen to her instincts.

Merry Christmas.

Christ is born.
In all aridity, despair, hopelessness…Christ sees us every moment. I pin my faith on that. Whatever breaks our hearts cannot undo that faith.

Missing your love
with God’s so
close at hand.
It seems somehow
a sacrilege
but I think
God understands.*

* Thank you, Peter M.

A voicemail message, from today.

“Just remember that you allow others to define who you are; that’s a choice. You get to determine who defines who you are, and remember you can choose that. I hope it will be you. But if it’s not you, I hope it’s someone like me. I love you.”

Thank you.


He was sharp, a paring knife. Slicing through the weakest point of the heel, through flesh. Into bone, splicing the cartilage, into shortcomings, flaws, inadequacies, errors, faults, failings, deficiencies, insufficiencies, weaknesses, limitations.

Knowing him was like taking a boot off, rolling the sock down, and exposing the pink flesh of the heel. Here, right here. Draw your edge right along this delicate bone. Nick at the soft underflesh.

(Limping to the drugstore. Need bandages.)

Bird and Storm.

Bird and Storm.

There was a place of lonesome days.
There, the days were unchanging, one the same after the other.
There, a bird flew low, her abdomen almost touching the ground.
Her feathers had become marred, tattered from skating across rough earth, edged in frayed silk.

(She cried and trilled, until no animal in the forest could distinguish her joy from her trouble. The melody in her music had bled out.)

She stopped, else broken to fly, landing upon mulched and coarse grasses.
The forest floor, loam, dark, all was—Crack! the light flung through the trees!
The light illuminating a starless sky, from beginning to end, the light washing white the grasslands.
The bird’s heart beat fast, painfully within her breast. She tucked her head under a bent and broken wing, on tenterhooks.

(This was a surprise. No trembling in the earth’s floor, no mist in the air had prophesied a Storm.)

The bolt thundered down, voltage-bearing and alive, harsh.
Revealing rays sparked a fire, burning a path through the forest:
Just there, a new-formed corridor, pristine, unwalked, waiting for her steps.
Storm/lightening fostering light. Storm, a welcome rain.

(The little bird opened one eye from behind feathers. All daylight, everywhere, and a lyric hovered in the spray.)