I wish my emotions
could be boxed
or counted
neatly organized
by letter or number
but they chose
to slither
viscous and elusive
flowing into crooks
and crannies
until there is no more
place for the tears
to go but out
dressed to the nines
disguising themselves
as poems.
There is a spot on my neck
that tickles when you kiss it
and I have to giggle
and turn away from you.
Stop that.
I need you to find the place
that calms when you kiss it
and I have to moan
and turn here into you.
Start that.
I will admit
to overdosing them
with sweet beguiling
slippery softener
‘till dead at my feet
they can rise
no more.
Yet they cling to me
as they can
with a ghastly
screaming need
for me to pull
them up.
Yes, once
I had a pair of normal socks.
Once thought weak,
limp and yielding,
then rudely shoved
to a forgotten place
in the back,
an innocent,
victimized,
festering anger
retaliates
by growing strong,
that pungent odor
your just desserts
when Jello
goes bad.
The Etch-a-Sketch
could draw me in
enticing my flexing fingers
to anticipate the feeling
of the erratic twisting
of its creamy knobs.
Hours would pass
before my neck would lift
in a final decision
to wipe it all clean
by flipping it over
and shaking it senseless.
My desire to leave
my artistic mark
with those jagged lines
of metallic entrails
retracing my thoughts
was again proven worthless.
Winter comes
with bitter warnings.
“Don’t eat that
yellow snow.”
Mother’s predictions of death
froze me in my tracks.