DinnerI got up from the table and the unreliable scraping of the chair
Gave maybe too much emphasis to my announcement.
It would seem that all I am leaving are dismembered broccoli trees
In a deforested dinner plate, a half empty glass of water
But I am leaving more than one word, more than just this night.
I am leaving because I'm too hungry to sit down and eat
The food they tainted with blessings.
The wood floor is reliable and each step out is another, gradually
Quieter, protest raised over my shoulder, like salt to counter
Bad luck. My run is not the run of a child; a child who darts
From the dining room and out into the dim street; to the woods
Where he finds he is scared. He got to that place by riding a big wave
That carried him fast to a halt to where there is no dinner;
Just the rustle of trees and what pride he
Could muster stuck in his throat.
This is the motion of a hand, lifting a wallet from the
Bed-side table, making sure it counted, adding a passport.
Then the key
ClaudiaThe cloth is a dry brown rapid,
Turned to lace by a river's stain;
A river that crawls on a moving plain,
Its mouth born in an open trap.
An embroidered phoenix with swirling wings
Hides on a hem, its feathers stuck
In a cradling half-circle, matching the tuck
Of femininity under a veil that sings.
The fabric stings like music too soft,
In a box, on a mirror. It reflects
Too vividly the damp dress the protects
The fragile limbs it hangs from, aloft
Like Spanish moss or raven hair.
Like waves in the bedsheets,
Curls are beautiful pictures the hold
A broken, sobbing face connected to the world.
No other longing than familiar hands the keep;
Kept the blood in the rivers
Embedded below pale valleys and shadows...
But as pain dries brown and dims in the window,
Flesh and soul are left in hungry shivers.
The StrollIn a court that is a yard,
With the goat and the lamb,
I play croquette with a scale
And a fine taste I've acquired.
It is no longer a matter of left
Or right, or how to swing a racket.
It is no longer a fork in the road;
One down towards healing
And the other down towards help.
The grass is never greener
Unless it really is and you
Are stuck in a lawnmower
With a job to do; a choice
To make for everyone but you.
In a fire that is the cold,
With the serpent and sentinel,
I play my videotape for opposing sides
Who will silence my lips.
But I say no, to everything.
When sleep never comes to waking
There is no up or down.
There is only nothing; the end.
In a time that has no minutes
Hours go by with each glass
Of lemonade or made-with-love
Cookie that passes like we do,
Turned to dust and taken out.
So when good is bad, I will
Be free. When wrong is right,
I will make another path where
Purgatory can be everything
While staying nothing.
StaggedI think I am a cake.
There is a bubble around me;
I have noticed it to be made of glass,
And inside I sit an audience to a kitchen.
I can see the jars of sugar and flour that made me.
The fridge is close by and like my cage,
It holds butter and eggs
In temperatures suitable for them.
I think I am a chocolate cake.
For now I have brown icing
And I feel wealthy and whole.
But time has passed since I was born from an oven,
And I expect the hands that decorated me are hungry.
But for now, I am a slick, sweet treat,
Stuck in a moment of pride
And sick with others kindness.
I think I am a broken cake.
My glass display case was lifted
And a knife was at my side.
In a crumble, the bakers efforts lashed out of me;
The flour was no longer white,
The eggs no longer eggs.
I had been trapped inside a perfect world
And was not ready for the outside
Because I was just a cake,
Some ones work of art.