Why I Hate Toast

Because it gets cold very fast
like a lover turned friend
no jam or jelly can mask
such a moment
when you bite down
expecting hot butter
strawberries
creamed honey -
nothing but frigid crust
no matter how intense the promise.

You would think by the time it popped
there would be something left to celebrate.

Downslide

My mind is awake and climbing.
It’s learning about gravel, embedded
in knees, it’s finding the grip when there
are no handholds. It is screaming
upside down with no rope, flayed skin
nerves exposed. How long will I live?
3 seconds. So much to do.

Please, unopen your arms
There is joy in this fall.

Parabola

Would the swallows hear
the shatter of eggs as they
fell from the nest?

I wondered as I lay prone
on the hard concrete sidewalk
in the middle of downtown
Chicago, because they said
if you lay there in front of that
particular building, you'd see it.
The parabolic curve looming
over you, was the only way
to capture the illusion.

Just the way you loomed over me
there was only one perspective.
Flat on my back - your form an arc,
such architectural strategy.
Everyone else just shoes and legs -
but hey, a girl has to get up
at some point - astonished
by the directrix of the view.

Mary, Mother of

Jane, who works in the coffee shop -
rough part of town. Her hair is dyed
for the sake of it, blows red flames
in the wind. Her skirts are too tight
she just doesn't care, what does it matter
in the end? She blows kisses into cups
just before serving, doesn't matter
if he's one of the regulars. It's due to
Mary never kissing her as a kid. Now
all Jane ever wants to do is kiss.
"All good things come to those who wait"
Mary always said. Just one more cup
even if he lies to her. God didn't
give her those big lips for nothin'.

Oil of Sweet Vitriol

Ghosts are here, smells of ether
dark in remembrance, never forgetting -
they float to surface every layer.

We stripped wallpaper in the kitchen
found the hole in the plumbing stack
after six years of pure stench, the diapers,
cat piss, kettle boiling dry on the stove.
Times we used to love, hard on the kitchen
floor while the wallpaper peeled away.
Sweet smells. Sweet nothings cling to me –
before day seeps in beneath night’s door.

Ghosts are here, smells of ether
dark in remembrance, never forgetting -
they float to surface every layer.