She can etch with
her finger the place
he lay on the bed;
see the indentations

where his head was
on the pillow. She can
smell his hair oil, his
body sweat mixed with

the lavender water.
She can close her eyes
and see him still lying
there, can sense his

presence, feel his finger
(ghostly) run along
her spine as she bends
over the bed, to sniff the

pillowcase. With eyes
closed she can pretend
so much, can imagine all
sorts of things, him doing

what he did best, and she
liking, wanting it all again,
just the once, just one more
lovely time. She opens her

eyes, just the indentation,
the smell, the faint stain of
hair oil. She lays on the bed
where he once lay, shuts

her eyes again, puts her
hands down by her sides,
imagines him kissing her
lips, wet and warm, his

tongue protruding her
mouth, touching her teeth,
moving within. She pretends
he is running his hands along

her thighs, lifting her dress,
moving between her legs, his
lips pressing hers, the bed
moving, her body alive again,

him there, she holding on to
him, wanting him to stay, not
go and away. She opens her
eyes and he’s gone, just her

alone, lying still, motionless.
The spider on the ceiling of
her room, black and plump
as a pudding, hanging there,

suspended. All thoughts of her
lost love momentarily ended.

some days the pen shakes
some days the sky shivers
and i can't see the moon bathe the backs of my hands
but i'm still okay.

some days my sight blurs
some days my breaths burn
and the eldest trees fall in the eye of the storm
but i'm still okay.

some days your lips still
some days your tongue slips
and maybes screech like harpies at the gate
but i'm still okay.

some days our minds fall
some days our space fills
and blackness towers and stabs in our skulls
but we're still okay.

sort of.

i'm becoming my mother
not the young, beautiful
confident woman she was
at 22
i'm becoming my mother
not the hopeful, brave
fearless woman i see grinning mischievously
in the faded, yellow picture
not her that was
but her that is
her
now
the only her i've seen
the one afraid to change
the one who won't take chances
the one who doesn't want to be seen
i'm becoming my mother
the lonely, bitter
sad old lady
the tired, faithless crone.
i'm becoming my mother
and i'm only 23.

Yours are the secrets
I'll keep
locked beneath
Virgina City ruins;
deep
within the mines.

May they find
a way
to sparkle-
really shine
some multi-faceted
light,
compared to my
fools gold notion,
they will beam their way back
to me
so easily......

but have mounds, hills,
of Earth
to uncover-
shovel from these eyes,
before the clear-cut
night,
when granted
Clarity.

We refuse to look into the lens of reality,
Never looking up from our books.
Unmoving when the rain pours down,
We wade through muddy brooks

We drink from cups and drain them to the dregs,
Only smiling when we see each other's disconsolate faces
Awakened from the dark depths,
Cast into the most uncharted places

Our broken fingers count the drops
Of each snowflake at the edge of autumn,
Blazing wildfires to destroy mistletoes,
Beating the rhythm of someone else's heart-drum

Our lips sing overtures to the spring grass,
Bringing forth the onset of the sunrise,
Dreaming that the fallen world,
Is actually what the angels sing of on high.

They look different in the distance,
But both can change in a instant.

Like church and religion,
Without love what is it?

What is it...