Undressed

I can't give in
you know?
Even though it draws my gaze
ever so poetically
to the window.

To invest the sparsely collected earnings
from my tired errand
on a dress so fiercely pinned to the mannequin
would unravel my eyes
and there is no seamstress left
to reward my hem with a thimble.

I tried to tear it free once
twice
maybe more
but all I succeeded in doing
was misshape a garment that was lovely
before my greed
and leave my heart-stain
spattered between the two of us.

In the dressing room
one beautiful autumn evening
I slipped in on
felt it collect in my folds
as if the fabric were I,
but I never got to take it home.

I suppose there was a theft I could have made
but we know
all us women know
the mirror is tweaked towards flattery
and the lighting is complimentary.
The living room mirror
is the true test...
that dance we do before it
for however long it takes to know
the dress fits like a glove.

I effort now
towards a circuitous route
that takes me past the dairy, the laundromat
the Rexall, and the 5&Dime.
But every now and then
I wind up on Third Avenue
my breath against the glass of that dress.

Conjecture

Do you ever wonder what we would be
if your life hadn't choked you...
leashed your neck in a way you felt was irreversible?

Would we be lying cheek to cheek
hands locked and laced
while our desires ran the race track
quickening.

Would we have pummeled each other bloody,
to either beat a hasty retreat
or realized we were both vampires?

Would we be amazed at the level of intimacy achieved
or disgusted by the fantasy we created
only to find it as unrealistic as Hugh and his bunnies?

I guess we will never know.

That's the part the destroys me
or doesn't...
even that,
having no accessible score.

Just conjecture.

Premature Offering

Why do I miss you so much
when the sun is filtering through
grape vines that we used to dance through
as if we were flesh?

Why did you offer yourself up
as the lamb
to all my sacrifice?
Why did I?
We were so blemished.

I ran the vines tonight in my shoeless feet
and the dirt was softer than sand
so much so
I floated on it. I swear I did!
The moon rose, and the sun set
simultaneously! It was beautiful.
At least it would have been
if you had seen it.

That woman from across the continent...
she should have been you
but she wasn't
so she sang your heart instead
and it came to me on a westward wind.

I felt you
sort of.
I wanted your arms.
I needed them more.

Behind The Curtain

I think that’s what you did.
You pulled back the curtain and I saw the next layer
maybe the universe beyond that.

Was it you or I, believing
that I could draw the drape,
shut my eyes
and not feel my hearts wanderlust?

Such is a futile exercise
I have engaged like an occupation.
At first I was glad for the job.
Something to do. If there is a doing thing
then there is an undoing possible,
an erasure of the new errand
my soul convulses with.

I was fascinated.
You were delightful
and I sometimes wonder if I shall wake
knowing it the concoction of a dream.
But my dreams die quickly in the morning light
and this has been a slow death,
returning with the lunar consistency
of the living dead.

I am the watch tower
that waits within the definition of insanity
and when the immortal appears
I feel sane.

An Incoming Moment

I recognized the look
two wool coats
scratching backs in the foxhole,
her ringless hands around the barrel of her want
your eyes scanning for incoming hurts.

I waved goodbye without touch
a casual passerby within a marriage
and wondered what it meant
to see this woman fighting wars with my husband.
.
.
.

Medicinal

I wrote this down
to digest later, in incremental pills of nutrition or arsenic.

I know not which
or in what order
or if I shall outlive either one.
.
.
.
.

Menu

A vestibule...a syphon
and all that falls into the mouth of its hunger
will be the fruit of some foreign union.

What we feed upon
is rarely the meal we ordered.
.
.
.
.

Stuck Between

a dog barks
and you don't even realize
your leg lifts
as if the noise were your true North
and your leg nothing but the rising of dawn
as it always was
meant

the entrance of the sun
into a darkness you have assimilated
as the beginning of each day

what can you do with a sun
you cannot capture?

You shield your eyes.

Wake up and smell the coffee...

Between heavy lid
and the clench against dawn
there is the scent
of something waking
from denial
.
.
.
.

This year has been a silent film
emotions flickering and exaggerated
for lack of a voice.

I've run them through the centrifuge
and separated the head from the heart
the will from the way
the duty from the will
and found myself wanting, as for years now
I have

Are you coming around?
Can you see beyond all that we crafted
to all that was meant?

There is a shadow
long and gray as a nameless street through my responsibility
it limps along on three wheels
only one of which is inducted.

That wheel keeps turning
strong and dedicated as ever
and for that, we go in circles.
.
.
.
.

Sanctity

He said,
"I could be your friend"
and the emotions ran like a faucet
too heavy with the labour of it's waters.

I suppose this weight is necessary,
otherwise relationships would be the castoff hankies
of the first shed tear.
And so we hang on, for each other
for the sanctity of it all.

Shit.
I never was sanctimonious.
But I sure tried.
.
.
.
.

Inability

If I could turn a dime towards the sun
I would.

But you see,
I have no hands,
and we've lost face.