I may have known
the seductive song
but now rags
of shriveling skin
deceive my body
another clump of hair
clogs the drain
and I’m a siren
singing in water
trying to drown
my cracking voice
I wobble
with lascivious
contortions
ankle deep
on this island
with only a flimsy
curtain of days
to keep me
from crossing
the sea
She already had one foot
in her grave, when we,
innocent children of the 60’s,
peeked over the fence
at old ‘Tomb–Tomb Nelson’
tending her garden
in her tattered slip again,
and controlled our giggles
so she couldn’t hear,
while our mocking breasts
swung over our shoulders.
Tomb-Tomb.
Guilty, but never caught,
we’re sentenced by breezes
to remember
grass fluttering
while caressing her knees,
the scent of the dirt
perfuming her hands,
the feeling of snickers
lying deep in our throats
choking the childhood
out of us.
Tomb-Tomb.
Somehow,
probably because
I was lost
wading ankle deep
in the variety of ways
to make a sock monkey
on Pinterest,
I missed it,
and unknowingly
made a salad
when all the world
was celebrating
National Grilled Cheese Day,
and that is so sad
because I do have cheese,
and butter,
and bread,
and the born in the Midwest
Green Bay Packer Loving
fan-ability
that should have
made me fry
that puppy
ankle deep
in bacon.
Her hollowed skin
is potholed
on old bulging
veins,
and when she
wrings her hands,
she breathes
in deep.
Her slow exhale
drips out
every secret
dream
she had.
Till all she is –
is a concave
bowl.
And if only
plants
could thrive
without sun,
she might have
need
for one.
My last evening energy,
wasted on wishing
for your cryptic call.
But melodic music
drew me in too deep
where I knew I shouldn’t wade.
Tonight I sway my skirt,
a subtle slippery wave
willing you to wander by.
Yet no tap settles on my shoulder,
no lonely dashing dancer
coming to cut in.
I’ll be the juicy joke,
the horrid headline
in tomorrow’s tell-tale paper.
Yet tonight I tempt,
my princess parade wave
lost in your laughter.
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.