Autumn Endings

It was the fall of youth, and I was drowning in cider.

Roiling in the riptide were a great many reasons for ending those lives

that belly scraped at her feet along with the rest,

a self absorbed humanity cheating at cards and on spouses.

Roiling in the riptide were a great many reasons for ending those lives.

We tightroped through with awkward glances and sweaty palmed silences

a self absorbed humanity cheating at cards and on spouses

celebrating premature divorces and Vegas weddings.  Everyone breaks even.

We tightroped through with awkward glances and sweaty palmed silences

when finally a fractured union agreed to die out in warring civility.

Celebrating premature divorces and Vegas weddings, everyone breaks even

shuddering in an unmarked grave.  Danced upon by thrift store boots.

When finally a fractured union agreed to die out in warring civility,

she was an olive branch sharp as a spear.  I was a wrung neck dove

shuddering in an unmarked grave, danced upon by thrift store boots

of her malnourished band of tin can chorus boys.

She was an olive branch sharp as a spear, I was a wrung neck dove

that belly scraped at her feet along with the rest

of her malnourished band of tin can chorus boys.

It was the fall of youth, and I was drowning inside her.

Crush(ed) Sestina 10

In collaboration with Aytch Rae

Mini-van mom-veneer, secret rock star. Pop tarts pop-locking delectable fresh
in full fruit, between youth’s unstable flower and the husk of age. Take a photograph
hide in the back of a dusty dictionary, half forbidden mostly forgotten memory and one word
is all it takes to tug those old days from the gray matter cubbies they’ve been safely ensconced
days when possibilities outshone problems, when survival didn’t require being such a bitch
the unwritten world in your back pocket, the pen in your hand still felt sweet.

Wander the bright Saturday market tasting touching fruits breads honeys. Air sticky with sweet
smells of newly cut flowers. Mums, daisies, tulips, grown with care, local and fresh
cultivated in vases, shaped pruned each petal in place wrapped in delicate tissue. The bitch
of it is, roots were never grounded, sheltered from pollen laced breezes, captive a living photograph.
Afternoon quiet shattered, flowered scents meant to relax not working, mom how do you spell ensconce
E N S C your way to a dictionary and look it up. But mom!  I don’t know how to spell the damn word

Undone chores slamming doors laundry piled to high heaven. Don’t you back talk me, not another word
Genes too tight, the monster you swore you’d never be. Post-bedtime sipping in silence, the wine so sweet
poured from box to coffee mug, worlds greatest mom emblazoned.  Retreat under afghan tightly ensconced
muffling screaming hysterical children running amok running the household pour another mug keep it fresh
Peering out of crocheted foxhole, the children in mascara warpaint red Sharpie wounds. Photograph
the moment. Time steals your children. Trace their faces, invisible scars from the shrapnel of being a bitch

Piles of unwashed laundry and no dish is clean t.v. hasn’t been shut off in weeks but the real bitch
of it? The retreating sun stole more than sunshine and left demons to whisper lies and one unutterable word
Exit. Take hair dryer drone, no scent of flowers in the shower, the bed unmussed. Become a photograph
flat, silent. Wait for sun-coaxed shoots and buds, blue sky thaw? Or trade it all for a satin-filled suite?
Morning after morning slides by unseen sleep steals hours wake up as sun is sinking feeling less fresh
less living less giving a damn less than the day before savor sliver of hope cocoon hide ensconce

Reprieve. Quiet tinged with stringed notes, fragile dishes brought out from hiding, candles flicker in sconces
dining in dimness, delicate greens, steak, not a PB or J in sight. Sipping from goblets, wash away the bitch
of a day of a year of a life, plate of food glass of wine and empty seat across the table signal a fresh
start a new life, another new direction, yet another do not past go, silently toast fresh futures speak the word
be named. Peel back the Mom-guise, discover self. Responsibilities cast off, strewn about the floor. Sweet
respite stretches out. Now restless, solitary moments bind like too-tight jeans. Hold their photograph.

Joy panic fear happiness chase in circles until merging into a new singular emotion sonogram photograph
in hand tailspins already fragile state of mind sending her to protective bedroom under covers ensconced
Duck, cover. Wrapping the comforter around internal shock. Wave goodbye to calmness, trade for sweet
soft skin, belly laughs, and a thousand weeks’ worry. The weight of it bears down, creating a bitch
creating a perfect storm creating oceanic waves called life, creating life, one cannot find the right word
but only scream to express to punch pillows to release to stream tears to explain to hug to refresh

Photograph in a dusty album, when survival didn’t require being such a bitch
Womb ensconced upheaval, an new beginning, a word made flesh
breathe through it, savor the sweetness, with each heartbeat the world’s refreshed