This is Not a Love Poem, or: So, Jill Says to Jack

When you told me
take this pail
I drank the water
carried myself up the hill.

When you demanded glue
I roiled my insides
pieced your crown
together with bits of sticky flesh.

I am not afraid to fall,
even without you beneath me.
The higher the hill, the more
sky to swallow on the way down.

When we are mostly water
what is there to do but swim?

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This is a letter poem in response to Carolee's Systole. Thank you Carolee, for inspiring me to finally write a poem.

Poetry Gong - Poem 28

What Are You Afraid Of?


Socks with no mates
Belts that uncoil like snakes
Hats with strands of hair hanging inside
Underwear on the sidewalk
Wet sidewalks on otherwise dry days
Days that end before the sun goes down
Going down dark stairs
Staring for too long--
making a deal with your eyes for them to move
Moving too fast
Moving too slow
Never moving
Treading water in a bed of milfoil
Losing your socks in bed
Socks with no mates, rising up
walking down the aisle
together.

You're Not Getting Paid To Love

She doesn’t believe the man in the black robe and top hat when he springs the news. You just don’t find men like that anymore, at least not men brave enough to wear black and grey on a hot spring day. If he had given her the news at midnight, she would have been inclined to sock him, right in the kisser. As it is, it’s broad daylight. The pews are filled with broad-brim hatted women, waving paper fans in front of shiny jowls. That’s an awful lot of hot broads for a May-December wedding. Her lilies of the valley are sweating. Leaving bite-sized beads on her satin pumps. She’ll kiss the other man in black, the man with a tail. Or is it the man in tails? Maybe, maybe he’s the guy with a forked tail her mother warned her about. Either way, she’s not going to bed tonight without a whole lot of cake on her fork. You couldn’t pay her enough to go to bed hungry.

What the Rain Does Not Wash Away

Old terrycloth robes
matted and flecked with cat hair.

Last night's sharp words
cutting wet grass
that sticks to our ankles.

A rusted scythe, each blade
tinged with old blood.

Smallest cat's paw blood
draining in a winding path
through cracks in new sidewalk.

Trust.
Hours-old, week-long
melted by one wrong move.

Melted popsicle juice,
leftover lemonaid,
hot puddles teeming
with mosquito larvae.

Hopes and dreams of raising tadpoles
even if the wiggling paisley spots
turn out to be frogs after all.

The last kiss
of the last frog prince.

Dark wet leaves
heavy with daytime dusk.

One hundred green maple leaves
wrapped around your body
in one last attempt
at staying warm in a cold summer.

Heat,
radiating from wayward firemen,
black suited policemen,
men armed with mail,
men with bulging arms.

Rain washes nothing away.
Even dead bodies remain
anchored in the ground.