My white knuckled grip
and bullying treads
have no effect
on the slippery slopes
and my wheels laugh
as I slide
too close
but the road
goes on
like the childhood song
goes on
and on
so once again
I’m icy
dicey
driving
my favorite
fear.
I can’t get the job
without experience
and there’s no escape
when I lie
awake
daydreaming
of putting my feet
up in that corner
office
till I call myself
insane
that old catch 22
won’t give me
rest
conflicting
always fighting
the contradictory rules
to move to the white
or to the black squares
to tip the queen
with an evil grin
only to have
a puny pawn
come into play
when I don’t need him
to justify and conceal
my abuse
of power
so I might close
that loophole
by trying to get out
of work
no
it isn’t really
crazy.
I Learned From the Best of Them
Bent over
in a mocking bow,
he should not
be jealous
of what I know.
For my fingers
know the quick wind
of a knife blade
taunting closer,
in a father’s control
of his child’s fear.
My eyelids know
the pain of closing
while trying
to look straight
ahead.
My back felt the spaces
welt between the bars,
the blackness of blood
on my white sheets.
I knew how
to hold it all inside
until my keyboard grabbed
my fingers tight
and forced them all
to fly away.
PROMPT 4: Write a history poem.
Sidewalks
colored, Easter chalk,
drawing green twisting tendrils.
Sunny morning,
kneeling day
in white lacy gloves.
Mother’s warning,
“Take them off”
still ringing in my ears.
I remember
yellow blooms
big as her opened hand.
With sheers in hand,
draw out winter pain
by cutting to the quick.
My hibiscus can’t run like me,
stuck
kneeling deep in dirt.
My laundry pile
does not discriminate,
sorting itself into black or white.
I throw it in together
spinning my life
into gray.
Where my water goes
as it flows down the drain,
I do not care.
Where my sins flow
as they leave my lips,
my fingertips,
I do not know.
If water can cleanse the soul
of sins unspoken,
I need a fail whale,
an overcapacity sign.
The grocery bag split
spilling its contents
to the floor
where the eggs
took it upon themselves
to slither,
running with it.
He looked at me
wondering why I wasn’t
running for the towel
hanging within arm’s reach,
the logical thing to do.
Instead I held his arm
forcing a moment
to appreciate
the amebic forms
the whites created,
the yellow run of yolks.
Sharp yellow
cut by the jagged
white teeth of the shells,
started tears flowing
cutting lines in my make-up.
I looked at him.
He wasn’t running
away from my reach,
the logical thing to do.
Instead he held me
looking for the beauty
he knows is there,
somewhere in the mess.
It took more time
to put me back together.