He Kissed my Thigh

Sometimes he slips,

and calls me Mama.

He kissed my thigh

that day while playing

robbers.

No cops, just robbers.

There, now we

are married.

Oh to be three—

when life was

about simple,

pure emotions.

There is no

convoluted,

socially acceptable,

tainted evaluation

of what should be.

Just love.

After whispering

from across the lawn

how he loved me,

he mentioned

how I am not

used

to real love.

It threw me

off, and I sat

and thought,

while he frolicked

in the grass, drinking

his vanilla milk.

I’ll let it lie,

and hope he isn’t

right.

Poems for a Man who Refuses to Read Poetry

1.

It’s an instant
explosion,
not unlike a child’s
science fair entry—
baking Soda
and water lava
add a bubbling fire
to an otherwise
still and contrived production
of a tropical paradise.

Its an oozing,
messy, completely
satisfying concoction
that garners touch—
that pushes over
plastic trees and
tiny figurines
in the path of its
greatness.

Some pass by,
with only so much
as a glance—
but others,
namely those
who know
the child beaming
with pride over
her accomplishment,
well they can see
the heart inside
the orange goo
flowing freely.

Still, the consensus
was only
an honorary
ribbon.

She hung it
on the fridge.

2.

She stole that first kiss.
thievery runs through her
veins, and she didn’t
give a fuck.

Only seconds were taken,
to breathe that crisp
October air, before
pushing him against
the stucco building.

It took hours to walk
less than a mile.

He asked,
Do you like to eat
one big meal,
all day?
Or do you eat
a lot of small
meals to keep
you satisfied?

I like
one
big
meal,
she gasped.

There was nothing
more said
until the house
was finally reached,
and he asked her about
religion,
over challah toast.

Before he left,
he touched her thigh
and said,
You look good,
really good.


3.

The strings
of her heart
were pulled
so tightly
one unintentionally
insensitive caress
would have surely
snapped the thin,
delicate extension.

In fact, when
the time came,
a maestro of sorts
plucked her with his
strong fingers,
so oddly familiar to her
shape—
breaking every string.
Cuts bled fresh and raw—
but nonetheless
the organ
was still
pumping out songs
of lust and yearning
for him only.

And then he closed
the lid,
and said,
Thanks for the good times.

And she was alone in
the ornate concert space
realizing there would never
be a touch so debilitating.
No other
could play her—
getting restrung wasn’t
an option.


4.

I knew I would never
be enough.
I don’t share typically,
so there would
be problems.

I had lost an earring—
an actually coveted
silver earring of mine
that particular night.

And you blamed
all women,
that we,
have to mark our
territory,
we plant things,
to keep
other women away.

Just because you
said it with a smile,
and a soft kiss
doesn’t mean
it wasn’t truthful,
and hurtful.

I just lose things.

Guess I never had
you to lose though.

Obviously in Control

Fell off
a barstool.

It was
unsteady.

Took a break
from my sprint
home
to sit upon
the town’s
burnt down
post office
ashes.

Just enjoying the
cool night air.

Broke a white
wooden fence.

It was basically
in pieces before
I even touched it.

Annihilated my
mother’s couch
with a little
top-shelf tequila
and crown.

No excuses here.

Cried a bit.

I get emotional,
I’m a woman—
let it go.

Kicked a
coworker
in the balls

Allegedly.

Woke up
Reaching
Goal weight.

Fuck yeah.

Bruised,

like a damn peach.

Does it help
that I sipped
a concoction named
after the great
Hemingway?

Fuck if I know.

His Name was Marc

There was
talk of my
bracelet, which
I told him was made
of seeds.
(They were really
just cheap
Wooden beads.)
He admired it.

Following—
a common
deep love
of music.
(I’m sure I
mentioned
Marvin Gaye.)
He agreed fully
of the man’s talent.

We shared week-old
Gummy bears
(green is my favorite)
that were
stashed in my purse.
He thought I was sweet.

And then he
(in the most gentlemanly
of ways)
walked me home.
(I told him I was fine
by myself.)
I told him of my
passion for the
flowers currently
in bloom around
the neighborhood.
(I stop to smell the
lilacs every single day.)

The next morning
I awoke to a vase
full of daffodils, lialac,
cherry blossoms, camilla,
and a single white lilly
arranged in the most
professional of manners.
(Perhaps he was a florist?)

I took the flowers to work,
(to get them
out
of the house.)

He asked me to
a carnival later that day
(because he liked my energy.)

I told him
point blank
I don’t remember
his face.

Two days later
more flowers
were upon my doorstep.
no vase though—
just a disheveled
collection of purples
and pinks,
that looked
as though
there was too
much handling
this time.

Tonight, I shut
my blinds,
and locked
the door.

The Knife

Pocket knife,
normally used
throughout the
daily drudgery—
to open boxes,
perhaps pull out
a cork
when caught
in a bind and
more than
a little parched—
apparently
on one fluke
of a night,
the first of which
was warm
far into
the darkness,
a new use
was found by
haphazardly
swiping
a sweet cotton-clothed
sheath wide open.
It was a sherbet and coral
first-time worn dress,
full of summer and
heat, with pure intentions
of matching the flora
within the recently
bloomed gardens.
And it was
just
uncleanly
sliced open.
Did the knife kill?
No.
But something was
left in pieces
on the floor,
along with
the knife.
And so
later on,
after getting
rid of the
once
Sandra-dee-like
frock,
now in rags,
the body that
was once
a tenant within,
searched
for a replacement.
It was a lackluster attempt
at best,
inside she knew
there wouldn’t be
another.
She settled
for more things
that she didn’t want—
things that couldn’t
match the dress,
or the one night
she lived
those few
hours
in it.