I dream of her,
childish and illogical,
straight hair and tiger-eyes.
Enveloped in wonder and reverberations
of her deflections, I long to syphon comfort
and confidence from her lips, but she chides me away.
I try to delay the bruises, but that chilled-heart knows no bounds.
Against my eye the icepack melts. I fondle the wound around my neck.
My hopeless little bitch companion, always trying to sink our own only life vessel.
Jamie Haddox vehemently believes that a little mud isn't as bad as a bloated politician, a rash you can't hide, a tooth headache, or unrequited love… better to get a little dirty. She is unsure, when it comes to cranes and herons, what law velcros one or unhinges the other. 100 percent of the time, she will choose a leftover hibachi scallop over beans from the garden.
I'm standing in the wind.
We had five years left to cry,
stay in, get things done.
The wordy gurdy stands
quiet in the middle of my head;
missing pieces [with just enough
shine] rubber-banded tog-
Back then, when she rose
from her beach chair, the weave imprinted itself
on the backs of her jiggly thighs.
Who would have carried it this far,
up the crest between watersheds,
then quit before the downhill?
This was your domain.
Pocket jingling a handful of brads, flat pencil behind your ear,
you’d bore through the browsers; pay and go.
When you rose from the sea
the crown of your head
touched the clouds
A conveyor belt delivers mutton and fowl.
Hot meringues suffer and collapse
under my ruthless fork.
His breath tripped over words stuck between his teeth
and tongue as sinewy shoulders curved.
The child stood, small, shivering in her tattered brown coat,
a dented, scuffed brown suitcase gripped in her hand.
mushrooms, beets, carrots, cabbage,
uncle’s ashen face.