You never get rid
of that ink on the page
that made your red handwriting
look like a stain.
Pasta or blood, whatever it is,
will make the next person
think, “What a pig.”
You never get rid
of that ink on the page
that made your red handwriting
look like a stain.
Pasta or blood, whatever it is,
will make the next person
think, “What a pig.”
My mother’s shame made
a boy who will be the next
tombstone with no flower.
These can’t be the times –
arm bruise, eye sore, and mouth dry.
Yet, they are; I am.
Trees cast damp blankets,
enveloping skin with soft
whispers of sharp mint.
Mind déw drips fróm the ópen pétals, twó
down cénter splít and pénetrable to pensíeri.
I spíll my néctar, séaling líds and líps with wáx
behínd the veíls that nów absórb full spíced
énergies, púlsing ínto míddle-brow górge.
Flowers peek from stems,
pale in comparison to
silken hues of dawn.