sensible shoes

for many years, she had a lover who appreciated her sensible shoes,  and only borrowed

a little money at a time, who looked good in a tux and used cologne, and
who knew just how to unbutton her ann taylor loft blouses:  carefully, urgently.

  
and after moving the kids' helmets and skates, and your road atlas

and noting the coffee stained carpets, they enjoyed acrobatic acts on rainy

afternoons in her minivan and this kept your marriage strong.  you don’t know this.

but now he has died and no one told her, and after six black months of silence she found out

on social media, which is the way of death and modern lovers,  and the enormity of this loss

drove her a little bit mad, but you didn’t notice because of the steak and eggs.

they kept on coming, sliding onto the plate with a perfect regularity,  and only a little insane,

she kept the cutlery in the drawer, though she has started shoplifting again because

after twenty five years she can finally admit:  she has always hated the way you kiss,

and how else can she compensate for that now. 

marriage

i stood so still with

temptation poised on my head.

and you aimed below,

aimed for my hollows.

and i stood so still for you.

still, convinced of love,

i stood quietly

and watched you stretch the bow taut.

our life, before me

fingerprints

We agreed we’d pray together,

We dropped to our knees, face to face,
Two bodies posing

                        And now I can’t trust the art of asexual men

                        Who will make me wash the dishes after our erotic encounters

                        And complain of the ill-dusted towel rack.  

And when I touched your ears, I wanted you to touch mine with

the fronts of your fingers, the myth of you to join the myth

of me, and when we bent our heads together I wanted it

to mean something

if you will

i want you to read what i’ve written, but only

only if you will admit that daisies and dandelions are related and that what i have written

is fine.  i offer small-stitched goats embroidered by a blind woman on yellow silk, careening 

wildly, a perpendicularly sideways perspective, and pale green tendrils to entwine, and

impossible brass keys with ambiguous purpose, maybe to the dull entries in diaries burned long ago
or maybe to nothing.  or to everything, if you read,

read through the raw bruised shine to the pulsing beneath, that gives meaning to my pulp,

that gives color to the backs of my hands, that is the clink of ice against the glass trap and a

full marrowed snap.  open and open and the words do not matter so much

i want you to read what i’ve written, but only

only if you can look past despite and into because.  if you will 

look squint through the eye of the needle at the camel staring back at you

and see possibility, look to where 

the rich man has been standing at the door of great,

cut, passed by, because.  then i want you to read what i have written