Roll my shoulders,
crackle spine of dry flesh
smoked fractures and boiler hiss,
hiccup of breath in a radiator.
Airless and unloved,
in the dank basement of the mind
snow cannot refract any light
into these shadows.
Still it aches on the backs,
eyeballs tight against their sockets
straining past the crisp,
no bounce in the world outside.
Imagine melting into dust,
slithers of self pooling at the foot
of all this make believe.
As endless as this frozen season.
“Airless and unloved, in the dank basement of the mind” L. Igloria ~ A Reparation
It takes three minutes to brew black tea.
English breakfast, china mug,
steam lifting lazy from the spout
in a long, spiral stretch,
my own arms raised from the blanket
for the glass bottles stowed up top
just waiting for autumn and wind falls.
She brings it in with her,
clung to the tip of her nose
and through her hair
so it’s blacker than night.
Strips out of her waterproofs
till she has shape.
risen high in her cheeks,
on the knuckles of her hands.
Reveals the desperation of it,
zips and openings.
Slid a caress down her neck
till she bears a collar of its touch.
Trails it deeper into the kitchen,
a song to sodden socked feet,
printing a vanishing trail
across the tiles.
We warp in the heat,
buckle beneath the buzz
of thick cut air
pressing in on all sides.
Can’t blame trains
As unsteady on tracks
as we are.
Yesterday they seemed
straighter, smoother, solid.
Today everything is
running into gutters.
I would stop too.
Choke my mixed signals
and lurch into whatever
station offered refuge.
Poem for the hottest July day on record.
The Spring was wet,
enough that the trees still look alive above the yellow grass,
their roots searching out hidden wells to keep from losing too many leaves.
In their shade the heat has baked the ground into a bad ceramic,
the glaze already chipped and cracked in this overheated kiln.
Camouflaged by brittle stalks the sacrifices go unnoticed,
dust to dust, ashes to ashes, the trees can only stand so long.