underneath

what sleeps in your heart,

is the truth of it

curled up like a cat,

soft and purring

but indifferent

 

 

what sleeps in your heart

could it be that trapped voice,

silenced

like one drowning

under ice

who sees the surface

but is unable to break through,

mouth full of water

on the sharp thin verge of surrender

to the overwhelming

weight of cold 

what sleeps in your heart

is who you really are

and if you don’t see that

you may sink to the bottom

alone

and never wake up

 

 

 

keep off the grass

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

you owned the neighborhood as a kid

wandering from yard to yard

never considering

such inconsequential matters as privacy

or the vague intricacies of lawn care

it was all yours, except

for the yard belonging to that mean man

the one every street had

the one who didn’t let you walk

on his immaculately groomed grass

and who called your mother if he ever caught you

he was the one your parents even thought

was kind of a jerk

except they never said it, of course

never agreed with you, of course

but, as they reprimanded you

telling you for the umpteenth time

to stay away from his yard

or you’d be confined indefinitely to your own

significantly reducing the size and scope

of the entire universe

they seemed to exchange secret, knowing looks

as if perhaps, remembering

their own childhoods

their own mean men

they secretly understood, maybe

they sympathized in silent camaraderie

when you moaned about how unfair it was

because he had the nicest grass to play on 

 

 

the proper attire

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I donated the dress I wore to my father’s funeral

gave it away

placed it in the bottom of a bag

under an old coat and some shirts

the dress was nice

but I have no need to wear it again 

my father died in spring

and it was difficult at a time like that

to figure out what to wear

the lightness of the season counterbalanced

with the needs of a somber occasion

 

but it wasn't a somber dress

in fact, it was almost exuberant

a large scale print of abstract flowers

splashed across a flouncy skirt

it was sleeveless, with an exaggerated collar 

my choice for necklace 

was the only jewelry he ever gave me

hematite beads,

once known as blood stone

the strand doubled around to fill in the empty space

created by the open V-neck 

his death was a surprise, he wasn’t sick,

they say my father died in his sleep,

peacefully, on a warm spring evening

flowers blooming in the dark outside his window

as colorful as my pretty dress

he hated that dress
so I don't need it anymore 

 

thoughts, one month later

a pressure cooker

was used as an explosive device

this cooking pot

meant

for the creation of nourishment

perverted

to butcher an innocent crowd

 

once a harmless vessel

now filled to the brim

with agony

and simmering hate

to be doled out with terror

 

what kind of hunger

drives someone to invent

such a recipe?

 

foggy morning

what can you say 

about the fog

that hasn’t already been written 

that it rolls in like a blanket

soft gray tufts drape the ground

in slinky damp 

that it disguises some features

while others glow

against its dull backdrop 

that it drifts away

taking with it the otherworld

created or revealed 

there is nothing new to write

about the fog

but I did it anyway