--ALL MY FEARS ARE RUNNING WILD RIGHT NOW               

I Would Have Loved You Anyway

In the end,

there is nothing left to scrape or pick at,
no detritus,
empty apple crates or
discarded cores.
Yet time unwinds without prejudice
and so your fruit puckered
and wilted,
the ages wearing on your
wounded pride,
you an old woman sooner than later,
never one for apologies or regrets
and certainly not now.

But I would have loved you anyway,

in spite of the lava you flung,
the fumes you made me suck
and the picture windows you shattered.
I would have loved you
if you’d just once said
you needed me.

 

Chaperone

Your mother and I

loved the pitch dark
and once we tripped over spools of barbed wire
on the way to a coronation.
But you
prefer clean slates and light
while I
have run out of wisdom.

On stage now,

some kid quotes Dylan
wearing a wire headset.
Beside him, you pose upon a Styrofoam stage,
your bare parts peppered with glitter.
Your arm goes wild waving
and I notice, not for the first time,
how you have her hands,
the same skinny fingers.
Even your eyes from this distance
have a similar gloss.

There aren’t many ballads,

but by midnight one comes on
and then I take you from him,
leading the way with your waist.

“You’re thinking about her,” you spit.

“Even on my night, it’s all about her.”
The song says love can be a torture chamber.
The singer cautions me, “You’re going to get
what you give.”

 

Living Arrangement

Here I am again,
bloody hands and bleeding mouth,
eating raw venison,
or maybe it’s duck liver.
Whatever meat it might be
you should know that I was starving and
grabbed the first thing in the fridge,
realizing too late that it was yours,
but of course,
I’ll pay you back,
maybe buy you dinner,
like on a date,
that is,
if you’re up for it,
because I know this whole living arrangement is supposed to be
platonic but, hey, what?
Wait, what?
You’ve labeled this container?
Yeah, that’s your handwriting.
Michael J.
As in, Michael J., your last boyfriend?
The one that supposedly moved to Europe?
The guy you continually curse?
No, no, no.
Oh my God,
I think I’m going to be sick.
I am sick.
You’re sick.
Look at this is mess we’re in.
Maybe we deserve each other after all.
What do you think?
Still up for that dinner?
We don’t have to call it a date.
 

 

Faith

She lived on faith

that the dead could not
get even.

And still sleep became an angry ocean,

jeers and slapping waves,
dirty sea foam spilling across the bare-bellied
beach.

Overhead a cluster of gulls hovered,

halting their search for prey
to watch
her row the boat against the tide,
miles out into the midst of the wicked water
where she first said a prayer
before dumping his body
overboard.