wake up and smell the roses
now less in telling
more I say
in shouting down the
kings of heaven
now here bidden
do this do that
and don’t run with scissors
(here she smokes
a cigarette, unfiltered)
hello ms. pot,
hello dear kettle.
Echo of thunder and those sirens going off
and you and I will have to talk
since past misdeeds are buried in shallow graves -
should’ve known, should’ve guessed -
grew those flowers out of old bones
and rotting flesh.
Well, this is unexpected - running into you
here, among the morning glories,
the wild iris and the river weeds. I thought
you’d gone south for the indefinite future.
I’ve been wading in the shallows since you left,
hair undone and mud on the hem of my dress.
But it’s this sort of luck that wills us forward
and makes us believe in fairy tales
and ghost stories. Fate entangles us
with such iron-latched fingers, caught in a current,
spinning on to some watershed ending.
Many hands make light work
and this time I’ll peel the rind—
citrus spray in a couple cupfuls of sunshine
dew drops off my brow
like blood from a festered wound
cried out when the bag of flour exploded.
Rage dissolved like oil in water
when we took out the kitchen knives
and went hunting.
Time is tick, tick, ticking
far and away
and whether you make it
worth your while
(as nothing green nor gold can stay -
or so they say)
is only a matter of
playing with fire and
knowing that night is
followed by day.
Dig deep in loose,
brown leather muck
and red, smeared over
soil like plaster and
newly mixed war paint.
Drain dry this cup,
elixir like falls from
dripped down black branches,
washed over small pebbles.
Soak up this sun,
light glinting off a
discarded dime of
in your gardens,