A Few Poems

Carole loved her Cat


Carole loved her cat,

but when it died the apartment felt roomier.

She didn’t have to share a bed anymore.


Carole stamped loneliness on her Christmas cards,

So when she decided not to send them out, she let curls out.

No more thistles in the pen scratch and thorny friends.

No more containing her silk-strung iron curls.


Carole ran a bath on Thursday nights,

But she stopped getting out when the water got cooler.

She liked shriveling up

to the tune of drafty daydreams on her back.


Carole thought her hair was too unruly

She thought her waist was too high

She thought her cheekbones were low,

But getting rid of the bathroom mirror made her forget.

She was a birthed back into a caterpillar

Lost in a cocoon of Sunday afternoons

Separated from smooth skin and ideal waistlines.


Carole longed for a birthday party in the park,

But seeing her face in a cup of tea was her celebration.

She was queen to her Chamomile kingdom.

Her court was the lemon floating on top.

Timeless Love Odes


Write a love note and bury it.

Sink it into the vegetable garden,

Six steps south of the beets

Four wishes west of the rutabagas.


Found 94 years later

By a terrier with a rosebud tonge,

Two mangled ears, and four paws

Creamy and freckled

With the remains of tramples inchworms.


You are dead, your garden lost in wild beds,

And that poor pup, inbred

A God-bound Cousin


For an instant

Her soul was viciously devine.


Her feet left surface, her curls gently floated.

Until their breaths were alone. Their own.

Silk-stranded serpents trilled through seas.

Their souls were hers, yet not her own.


She arched her back, the water lapped

Surely shattered by the curvature.

The serpents grasped, and all they saw

Became a portrait carved in limestone.


There is patting feet on watered tiles.

Children speaking and a glass door slamming.

Chlorine fractured the mindful tenure.

This hotel pool is no place to be profound.


Her Body was a Temple


She rinsed her chest in olive oil

Anointing the female figure with the kitchen cabinets.


Her movements embodied shriveled fingers

And the papaya’s outside

the bedroom window.


Her body breathed with her words.

It caught with her thoughts.

It enveloped the spirits that she loved


In microscopic dew drops.


She dipped her legs in patchouli

And cleansed her pores in water so pure

It might as well be holy.

Artist’s Statement


The centipede looked into my eyes

So fiercely I dropped a paintbrush.

It fell forty imaginary stories,

But the floor looked regal in splattered attire.


She slipped across the edge of the easel

A city of hardwood and my bare feet

Bustled below her skyscraper ledge.

Her legs suctioned into pockets of discarded pigment.

New shoes of mauve and gold.


She was caught by my creativity

Lost to a sea of color she could never understand.

Her body twirled in a vicious search for freedom.

Her legs releasing one at a time.

She lifted her painted body onto my masterpiece.

A vision of a bloodstained trail

On a painting with my signature.

I could have stopped her, but still I froze.


She left a hundred marks in each inch.

Each printed point was celestial,

But perfectly placed and brighter than smog.

Her strokes lifted higher

Until the painting levitated,

Leaving shadow in the sidewalks below.


Her trail was my path and my delicacy.

I followed her with rich stripes of gratitude.


She took a break on the 45th floor

(four inches above the horizon).

By then I had become the student to her master.

But her legs were encrusted in too-thick layers

And her lungs weakened in the acrylic fumes.

The city below her wept

My toes stopped fidgeting,

And the paint stains dimmed.


I swept in and coated her in layers of magenta

And a green which I have no name.

Her death is my celebration.

I will always be her muse.

My art is always hers.


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