Eaten

Her bitterness grew, eating her organs gradually. When her doctor read the
x-rays, he showed her where her heart used to be, reduced, he said, to the
size of a radish.
“Why are things always compared to food?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he suggested to her, “because of what is eating you.”
She went away, pondering how she might grow a new heart. Perhaps it was
something she could bake in the oven or grow in the garden.

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Vinegar waltz

We are kept
contained in all our tsunami’s
we rise, still in a pickle
treading, if not swimming
despite the blessings
bestowed day upon day
dreams may sour
the lip of the jar, closer
but still up above, beyond
while we wait for the next
twirling, whirling pool
sometimes leaving us
dizzy and sick
and other days
we assume the position
and dance

*

My Valentine

Snowy Valentine.jpg

The light in here is too bright for morning
the sunrise peachy glow distorted and squinting
our distinctive beginning comes to me at the same time
both warm and cuspated

knowing your love still exists helps me to
keep on, keep on, and knowing you still love me
bids me not give up

The lights in this room are too dim to read by
in the evening, the aroma of sausage, with its
fennel and thyme, and the acid of tomatoes
keeping things real

the streaks in the sky at sundown leaving
little illumination to stir the sauce pot, little to the
imagination of a pair of love thieves in a jam

And some days we don’t take the time, even to
let eyes meet, but we continue, and
knowing your love still exists
helps me keep on, keep on

Last words

Too many sips loosens up the will
more than the intellect
I am either going to
ruin your day
or rock your stuff

Either way this is going
to play out to the finish
I already pressed the button
and I am no slacker

Do you forgive me–
because I felt myself
fading
and I had to do
something

Pre-threnody (before you go)

I don’t want anything of his when he is gone. Not a damned thing.
We didn’t talk for 20 years, and now he tells me stories. He tells me things about my mother I never knew, and I tuck them away like perfumed handkerchiefs in small drawers. I may never open them again, but they are there, preserved for posterity. Someone will want them and treasure them. Or someone careless will throw them in the trash.

it was not accepted
anymore
this new kindness
she had learned
but she never felt guilty
about tossing handfuls into the air
like choice chocolates
generously
some were caught
and melted on waiting tongues
others trampled

blurry
I do not sleep
vases of lilies threaten
bouquets of roses are well past
still
all the words
pro·di·gious
and flying about
just within reach