Rose petals,
windswept
from limp
late season stalks
descend
upon the land
to begin their
yearly rot
droplets
of crimson,
one-time
goddesses
now forgotten
exhausted
from summer
tired
of their own beauty
they rest
suicidal
surrendering pure skin
to coffee brown hues
undersides
to black-spot and grime.
The earth
recalls
a fragrant teardrop,
each bract
a total rose
a late gift to mix
with autumn’s rain
to sweetly perfume the
spent and sleeping soil.
his hands painted me purple
along my jaw, under my eyes.
i would freeze to his rigid words
his dark stare, to a frown
oh my silence
when i could run, i surely ran
when i could fight,
i still took to flight
shame is a ghost
i freeze to the thoughts
of some young days
when i
abandoned her to him.
-
With him boxed in
pinewood, she asked;
Are you glad?
I said; I don’t know enough
about death to answer that.
With the dream in his mind
he stood and wandered from his porch
which had also been his parents porch
leaving the smoking air and
metal clatter of the neon kitchen
to join the dark and buzzing atoms
that made up the terrible night
leaving, to trek along the flattened track of his land
and then to the greater road that led to the river
that might save him
along the track and out-of-sight
moonlit switchgrass cast speckled shadows
across his steps
and beyond his reach the silhouettes
of young pine trees gathered in twitchy rows
like anxious soldiers
he met the wider road with silence
but for his steps and thoughtful breath
and the unse
In the end
through the
dew-drops
rolling down your freckled face
you said
let’s find a place
where things cannot
ever
fall away,
– and I just didn’t comprehend.
By then
I felt only invited
as you surveyed
the broken map
of our histories
so sudden you were
so frantic
to nullify each valley,
to flatten every beating crest
we ever climbed.
I saw, your eyes divine
your blood so urgent
to hammer out
even the minor corrugations
of our pairing.
(By then,
the cold velocity of each of us
had aged our faces
and stole our weight)
So - when upon the table
that yardstick levelled out
your eyes met mine
(for the last
when she utters Manhattan
we silence ourselves
the way clocks stop suddenly
on funeral days
or bodies learn of their true selves
through trauma
her gin laced parable
has the room transfixed:
dry hats on tables,
soil-skinned believers
bouncing between
a place of TV myth
and the honest heat
of the days setting sun
she is here
and she is then.
close and distant
her island city
both expands us
and ages us backwards
suddenly simple
we are folksy and foetal
and pink
as one, we assert to evolve
to wanderlust
like pearls
in salt shells that desire
to become comets
shifting
across the dark sea of night
untouched and unhinged
before dawn
peb
when they finally returned
the house had split along the
outer corners
water had burrowed
under the floorboards
knocking them up and into criss-cross patterns
under their feet
floated furniture had
punctured the walls and
he thought the whole abode had ran itself apart
as if to flee
from a crime
a muddy line
sat neatly across the windows bottom half
so they could both see where the flood had peaked
that night
she couldn’t go to the child’s room
instead she sat upon an old potato box in the place
they use to call the living room
– already numb from
the doxepin
she needed that morning
just to make it back
he walked
Today, I told my class that we would be playing a game. One that required a special visitor to participate.
I had invited my friend Hassain to visit my classroom – he arrived wearing a cotton thawb and leather sandals. He had taken his taqiyah from his head and held it in his hand as he stood and faced the children.
I introduced Hassain to the class. I told the children that this man was named Hassain and that he was very much the enemy of all children, he was extremely dangerous and he was not to be trusted.
The children had never met Hassain before today but because they trusted me, they nodded to my description of him and were tha