Framed in Blood Red

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.

Poetry at Bedtime

A hundred and one things
compile today;
my back yields to the weight
of all of them.

Yet, my cat must be hugged.

My fingers deep,
press her close
till my breath slows
to her softening purrs.

Yet, my poem must be written
before I sleep.

Digging deep
I try to leave my mark
as blood is seeping
from her scratch on my thigh.

PROMPT 9: Write a self-portrait poem.

Schooled

I have tossed aside my cover
to let the cool morning air
wake my skin,
my muscles,
my bones.

I stand.

In this moment,
this is all I am.

Later,
there can be organization,
a back up plan,
a process,
a sharing of my knowledge,
my theories,
my self.

Later,
students can prop up their heads,
upon their palms
interested, disinterested,
until the bell
or their blood
falls asleep
or wakes them up.

But in this moment,
this is all I am.

I have tossed aside my cover.

If You Want to Scare Me

Cover my windshield
with mist,
rain that morphs
into torrents,
torrents that flood
into fear,
fear that reminds me
of bloody sockets
where eyes
were lunch
for Hitchcock birds.

Leave me to grope
with my arms out straight,
bump into the chair
in the dark.

Darken my room,
cover my cage,
don’t let me see
the crimson water
streaming out of your
eyes tonight.

Your eyes are left
with empty promises.
Don’t let me see
tonight.

Blood is Thicker Than Water

I probably should not
have agreed to be a zombie
in my step-daughter’s movie
where home-made blood
was tossed on me
by the bucket full.

I have successfully washed
the blood off my clothes,
but on two separate shootings,
hoping for protection
in a back pocket of my jeans,
two innocent cell phones,
were killed
by drowning.

Zombie phones
don’t come back to life.
They die forever
doing Heavy Duty.

It’s okay to use two cans
and a lifeless string
to a call a friend
when you are young
and immortal,
but not so much
at 52.

Fortitude

Under my bedspread
thrown over a card table
with only room
for a pillow,
a blanket,
a box of crackers,
and me,
safety could still
squeeze in.

But I grew
and it became difficult
to keep my legs inside,
and so I stopped
hiding there.

I would go to Mom
who would hold me
and tell me
time and time again
that everything
would be alright,
and in my innocence,
I believed her.

Until sometime in adolescence
I came home from school
and discovered
my mother crying,
no place
to hide her tears.

I pulled my bedspread
off my bed,
climbed up next to her
and wrapped it around us
telling her it would be alright.

We were old enough
to know better.
She just continued to cry.

Even though nothing was more frightening,
there was no room
to shed my tears.

Armory

She is sock footed
in her pajamas
pulling a worn throw
over her shoulder
now curving
into the deepest
corner of the couch.

I take the deep breath
that she cannot
and reach into my arsenal
of aspirin,
and hot compresses,
thermometers,
chicken soup,
and cool wet rags
to lay upon her brow.

It is hard to watch my child cry,
her eyes pink and longing,
her fingers weak and airy,
a trail of tissues
in her slow wake.

She empties her eyes,
and only the arm of the couch
and I
are able to read the message
in the wet dots
she drops:

Fix me, Mom.

I sit next to her
my hand rubbing on her foot,
her eyes finally closing
in exhausted sleep.

We breathe.