No sun in winter. No sleep

In summer, either.

Endless sunshine makes

Endless, lively spring, lichen

Likened to our love. 

When sun goes down, down

It stays. Days mean little now

That summer’s over. 

Survival takes stage

Center. I lose trust in my

Fellows. That’s lonely.

I hope the spring comes

Soon, and the moon gives way to

Sunshine once more, love. 

Drinks are like poems

Everyone’s got a favorite one

Maybe I can’t stand your favorite,

And you can’t stand mine.

My old friend drinks whiskey,

While the other drinks wine,

And for others, still,

cheap beers do fine.

Some like tomato juice and hot sauce.

Some like a touch of sake in a hot broth.

Some like a hot toddy, and

Some are a bit more naughty

With onslaughts of jello shots.

There isn’t a right way to kill pain 

But I wonder if there’s a way to savor it.

That’s why my favorite drink is gin and tonic. 

It’s got so much for just the two things.

It’s clear, fresh, bitter, sweet

Heavy, airy, light, heady

Add ice

And the glass gets sweaty

It’s a drink for wallflowers, the G&T.

It fits in everywhere.

A dive bar. A film society.

An empty stairwell. 

A jazz joint.

A jam jar. 

It’s humble, but it’s got class

No matter what glass it’s served in. 

It’s as clear as truth,

As dry as vermouth,

And fits well in a hand with a cigarette.

When you sip it, it stings,

it’s cold, but 

If you hold it and

Savor its

Icy fingers in your mouth 

You can feel its ice go south

Hold on to its truth and the bitters give way

Like goose pimples to winter shivers 

Take your time with the gin,

And the tonic will come—

This is my kind of poem.

Take every note and

The sweet one lands on

The tip of my tongue

At last,  patiently and gently,

The cool taste of blue juniper berry

Like the light landing 

of a yellow butterfly on a

green limb springing

from winter. 

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Could be as a

Basket of puppies

Nuzzle

Indiscriminately into

The nooks of each others

Necks, ribs, and hips

Warm and sleepy,

milk-sweet breath,

Heavier than dead bodies,

Due to our aliveness

Our shared drowsiness

Comfortable, and not jealous

Of one paw for another 

Just a basket of lovers,

All together.

Share

This is different because

I refuse to name you a bird

or any other thing.

I can only say what I heard,

tonight.

I heard your voice.

It was a terrible thing to hear because it was true. 

I admit I disregarded it, at first, as a sort of “party woo,” but

The encore of it was not jubilant at all, it was

Awful. It was afraid and I knew the sound of it

because it was the one I made when

My car was about to crash straight through a fence

in the middle of nowhere.

It was a true scream that comes from deep in the throat and the chords and

The stomach and liver and belly and heart and soles of the feet and in fact every

Little beating cell within you that wants to live, so badly.

The terrible scream that rings through all of you and erases all thoughts except
NO, NO, NO NOT THIS, 

NOT THIS, NOT THIS, NOT NOW, 

NO NOT THIS NOT NOW NOT YET NO

I knew that scream when I heard you, O Voice tonight. 

Yours was a sound so familiar in fact that my next thought on the track was

That I had imagined it.

That I had not slept enough and hallucinated. 

It happens.

It does.

But the next thing I knew was

that I was wrong about that one.
I knew because inside me my human

antennae told me something was wrong.

You, Voice, echoed on,

you repeated and stretched the sounds and the seconds

until they were minutes and hours long

and eons had gone by by the time i had noted the time of night–

One eighteen a.m. — and dialed two ones after a nine. 

The second voice I heard since yours tonight asked me

“What is your emergency?”

And I told them all about you,

all that i knew anyhow,

which wasn’t much

The only thing I knew of you, now, was

My own address, from which I heard you,

and the time of course. 

She said that help was on the way already

I racked my brain for more to say, 

A clue that might pave the way to your safety, 

Voice of night. 

But I had no more clues left 

and it was time to hang up with 

the lifeline, so this second voice might 

just maybe rescue someone else 

in the next five minutes. 

The line went quiet and my 

mind of course would not. 

It’s not about me, it’s about this voice, this person I’ll never forget, now

This is a love song to her, or to them,

to this person I heard.

I heard her again but briefly.

I heard a moaning and weeping. 

Not the high screech like tires burning out now

but rather a mournful lowing, 

An exhausted “ooohh”ing. 

I strapped my boots on, fast as I could and sockless,

My knees knocked.

I got my dog, who

Snarls at dark figures and

Long shadows and

Bad intentions.

He can smell them.

I woke my brother and stumbled out. 

I fumbled nine one one in my pocket,

red leash in hand and walked.

Hello?

Hello?

Are you there?

Hello?

I heard you
I’m here…

Hello?

I looked for you, Voice.

I don’t know if I looked enough.

I don’t think I was quick enough.

I worry about just how your sounds were

Snuffed.

I looked for you, Voice.

Hello?

Are you there, Voice? 

I stayed awake all night for you, Voice of night.

I walked in the cold wet rain and I kept my ears peeled.

I don’t mean to sound selfish when I put it this way but I 

Could have put on some smooth jazz to cool down my 

nerves and soothe my mood but instead I 

Opened my window even though

it was cold.

I could have tried to sleep but I just couldnt,  

i just know i couldn’t do that.
I want you to know, Voice, if you are out there,

That I put on a hot kettle for you. 

And that if I could find you now, right now I’d borrow your soul right out of your body and swaddle it up in a woolen blanket like a baby or some perfectly made dumpling, and just as warm.

I wish I could keep you right here at tea time forever,

Voice. 

I wish that when I heard you,

I couldn’t hear the question of whether you survived and I

Wish that when I heard you,

I couldn’t hear the next ten years of your life

if you DID manage it and I

wish that when I heard you,

Voice,
I wish I could explain gently to you that

it is a beautiful sound, the one you made,

One I wish I could have done because

I didn’t screech like that when I was torn down.

You did something amazing, Voice, you

Screamed and your cells screamed to live

and your blood screamed to stay within

Your veins and your liver

and stomach and brains

and your blood screamed to keep

YOUR name. 

Your scream is the most beautiful sound to me. 

And not in vain.

Please keep it,

keep it with you, wear it proudly, 

wield it like a sword 

flashing bright silver lights

in the eyes of your aggressors. 

I heard you, Voice, 

And usually, when I have a choice of words I like to 

Make it about two things.
I like to make things into birds and 

Trees and I like to say things in ways that

Are pretty or at least

Halfway that and a little more sad. 

But I won’t do that for you, Voice,

Because this is your story and your choice, 

And all I know about it is that you’ll come to hate that word,

CHOICE,

Because I did, 

Because it means nothing.

Choice.

Choices being offered are fake,

they are A and

B choices proffered by

People who are already

on a certain side of it and they

Want you to choose the one with the sugar water.
CHOICE.

A slap in the face for an insistent voice who screams in a silent night

HELP ME.

HELP ME

HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME

In no uncertain terms or words at all the word CHOICE is an insult to this girl who screamed out

In the dark and silent night and heard nothing back,

Heard no footsteps,

Her mother did not appear with golden wings

to lift her up and carry her home in a Familiar SUV

with its triple-A insurance policy.

I want to tell everyone in the world

not to insult this person

by telling them they are strong.

But at the same time

I want to tell them they are stronger than anyone.

Stronger than me for sure and all because of that

Scream which could be heard for miles around,

of that i’m sure because

In the time it took for my thumb 

To dial nine one one

Someone

Else had already done so.

Someone else heard you other than me, Voice. 

And tonight even more so. 

and I won’t transform you into

something beautiful because I don’t KNOW if

that’s what you are, Voice.

All I know is I’ve got a hot kettle for you here 

and my ears are still peeled. 

And I know I’ll Peel out 

the door faster next time because 

I’m more scared of a silent night than I am

of being caught red handed as a good Samaritan. 

I’d rather be gunned down for offering a helping hand

I’d rather do that than stand here and hesitate.
Because when I screamed, I needed someone else to hit the brakes and

No guardian angel came down from heaven’s gate to save me. 

Just like the way your red and blue lights never played

Over our orange barrels

And rain–soaked concrete.

I promised not to make you into two things, Voice.

I promised not to take you to the newsrooms, Voice,

All I know is you 

Screamed and your cells screamed to live and your blood screamed to stay within

Your veins and your liver and stomach and brains and your blood screamed to keep

Your name and I know that

We have to be each other’s guardian angels because

Nine one one operators and red and blue lights are

only able or willing or capable to do so much 

And none of us have wings with which to fly down from above and 

Keep a birds eye POV on our loved ones. 

The best we can do is to look down from our

second floor apartment views and

Keep our keys and

Cross our fingers and

Charge our phones and

Keep our friends close

and a barking dog

and daylight even closer.

Share

the musician's first day, he 

picked up a guitar just wanting to

send a message to his love

in a way that sounded good, in a song

she would listen to. 

he picked up the guitar long before his first class

he played his first song, he pulled at his strings

and he sang it all wrong, all out of key 

and chords all dissonant,

 the girl went away

and he continued to play,

what else to do all summer

when an empty guitar listens so much better

than she did.

so he played through the hot season

with verve and commitment

like young love, but alone

it's not as if he forgot her, the first love,

but he did discover the companion, 

the woman after, as it were, 

the girl left but the songs stayed with him

and so did the feeling of strings in his fingers

and so did the echoes of songs which would linger

so long in his mind that he quit with the filter

and just let it out, all at once, helter skelter

his songs, out of key, out of risk, naively and freely 

flowing from his lips at last, and tragically

in absence of that first lover 

but now he stands taller

and all before his first class

in music. he grasped

his heart, split in two. he

gripped it in his hand like a grenade with a pin pulled. he

held it up high as he sang rock and roll and the blues. it was

only then that he lightened his soul well enough to

learn and discuss in a class with the others

the ones who

would teach him, a pupil, in this

craft he discovered by accident as he

fell into love and then out again.

I had the strangest dream

How to tell you, I can’t begin

I saw a cavern, dripping

I spelunked my hands in–

Both of them—deeply—

the cavern opened, it was seeping

Ooze was weeping from its dark walls

I saw them, flesh, marooned, embedded, tall

Fallopian wires, shoe-horned in, red-and-blue, long and sprawling

Wires crossed, as if the womb were

a time bomb, and I the one to stop it.

The wires were crossed. The flesh was red,

Cross with me and my lack of expertise

the clock, despite its ticking, was no-where

to be seen. What hope is there to repair,

with my clumsy hands, this wellspring?

The boot of the coupe before mine

looks like a cave painting, dusty fingers

reaching from under its

Latch. Wraith-like, limp wrists, wither’d

hands, raised, adrift, from in the river Styx.

Wafting away, like wavering flames of natural gasses,

Diminishing clues of our ancestry. Perhaps they

Casually wiped the blood from their nails and thumbs

Once they were done with their hunt

Just as we slide our five and ten digits

down our trusty beast, hairless-

down the dusty carapace—

down the hide of our vehicle’s rusty old trunk.

Hi! I’m breaking my usual flow of “just poetry” to talk a little bit about this piece. I usually write in a more free-verse style, so I really challenged myself in making something much more formal.

This is a villanelle. A few well-known examples of this form include “Do not go gentle into that good night,” by Dylan Thomas, and “Mad Girl’s Love Song,” by Sylvia Plath.

A few things to know about villanelles:

first, it has a specific rhyming scheme. Its end rhymes go as such: aba aba aba aba aba abaa.

second, it uses refrains. the first and third lines from the first stanza are repeated alternately at the end of the following four stanzas, and then together at the end of the final stanza.

third, villanelles tend to be about subjects of obsession. they are a good format for this considering the repetition. it lends itself to obsession. it steers you back to a recurring phrase, feeling, or image, pulling your head toward it, like you are a stubborn horse, and it is water.

Part of the challenge of writing in this form is the fact that the other lines in each stanza should alter the meaning of each refrain. Each verse comes with its own little twist and impact and unexpected thought that, while surprising, completes the image of the whole.

When I read about villanelles, I knew immediately that I wanted to write one. I didn’t know it would take me all night! I learned a lot in doing this. I hope it came out halfway good.

.

.

Why not? I thought; after all, that's what I'd always done before;

My rapid-fire messages, each friendlier than the last. 

Each time we talk, I shoot my shots, I'm always back for more. 

.

Last night, I sobbed, my shattered heart in pieces on the floor

I’d asked him out for beverages; he said no, just like that. 

Why not? I thought; after all, that's what he’d always said before. 

.

I don't go gentle into that good night, I go looking for your door.

I’d walk to you forever, if we could just forget the past. 

At night, I walk, after all my shots. I'm always down for more.  

.

At last, I knocked. At last, we talked, but our talk hadn’t much in store

To ask your pardon, I'd have to know what line I had trespassed. 

Why try? in the thrall of my hot headed squall, I set sights on the score

.

“So that’s it? You just quit? Can’t take my shit any more?” 

I dreaded it might end this way. Our language got more crass.

“Why not,” you spat back, “Your panic attacks don’t excuse you for being a whore.”

.

“It’s fine,” I scoff, after all my talk, but it’s a lie, of course. 

“I guess we closed a door that day,” I whisper to my glass. 

Why not? I thought; after all, that's what I'd always done before. 

after my shots, at night, I’d still talk.  I’d always be back for one more. 

See, with you,

I drowned thirsty.

With you,

I could miss you, and

Miss you,

And miss you,

Endlessly.

It was like the ocean,

A bottomless well,

But unhelpful, 

salty, salty,

Sour in my mouth, 

Eyes cracking,

And thirsty. 

Now, with him, its

Different and

Here’s how.

He’s a bit more like rain.

I can’t predict him, and

Sometimes I’m dry and some

Times I still miss him, 

Now and again, but

He always comes around and

His water is clean and light blue and I drink it.

When I miss him I can just say so, 

The way I could never do with you.

When I miss him I can 

Do a little rain dance 

And hope he ends my drought soon.

I can miss him– a little–

A bit sad, but

 It’s not so bad

When he says

“I miss you too.” 

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You put on a black tie and

You picked a restaurant.

You picked me up at mine, and

You knew just the spot.

Do you have your next course in order?

Are you intrigued?

Is your interest and your appetite piqued?

Tell me darling,

do I look appetizing?

do I look like I promise more?

Or am I more like

An open bar at a wedding,

at someone else’s marriage

There to make you feel better about the love

you didn’t get?

Or am I Miss Piggy on silver platter--

the beast, the babe?

The fame, but ate?

A rising star, barbecued?

Or am I a little diversion,

a cocktail between courses?

Are you refreshed?

Has everything been

to your satisfaction?

Are we going home yet?

Keep treating me like a consumable

and one day I'll be all gone, like your meal,

like fossil fuel, like rain forests, the economy.

Keep eating and I'll be the earth,

be used up for all that I'm worth to you,

You, and your youth, living well past your years.

You, are you playing markets?

You, have you already

Calculated the loss of me?

Was this diversion a fun little splurge?

Are you not worried because we'll

Be dead before it's a problem, allegedly?

I hope you're right and that we burn up soon,

in a hot summer, mid-monsoon

Separately and in our own hot stuffy rooms

eating McDonalds.

In a time not so long ago I'd have fought

the end, tooth and nail,

but there's not much leftover now,

after our happy meal.

What if God had put a watermark on the moon and a

Limit to who could view it? What if he

Did what Netflix did and restricted his

Wonderful sights aside only for those in

his household?

What if God put a sign in front of the ride saying

You must be THIS righteous to receive the goodlife?

Maybe, he's

Knocking our heads together and taking us to

McDonald's for ice cream

Or maybe he

Vindictively

Punishes me

And others in poverty,

A mass of whipping boys,

Crucified, along with his first son

When angry dad had a bad day;

"Whatever possessed Me to have

Eight billion children?"

What if God had not made himself the

Only source of greatness?

What if he gave this

Responsibility to a board of trustees,

a pantheon,

a succession of demigods?

Maybe he could have placed a

Little less pressure, then, on

Himself and been kinder

to all his little creatures.

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I was with my friend and we 

saw a bird with a broken wing

It wasn’t a twittering thing,

It had talon and eagle’s eye.

It didn’t sing, or squawk, or cry.

It was a bundle of down and knives. 

It was silent, afraid,

And dangerous. It took

Thick gloves to move it.
It resisted some and then

Moved in to the box,

No shoe-box for a tender baby

bird; instead, for it, a heavy cage,

To shield it, and likewise, us. 

It was a long drive to her safe place.

She, in the back seat. 

Her sharp claws-- she’s still

Formidable– but humbled,

Queen of sky, 

Rides high on balance,

On justice,

On rightness,

On politeness,

now grounded, must

Eat humble pie and

Trust incapable, naked aliens to

Bring her somewhere good. 

Long drive, I’m

In the passenger’s side.

Usually on a ride like this–

And really, anytime–

I’d like to smoke along the 

road and play my favorite songs 

Loudly

Sing, cry, scream, lie, shout, sob, vomit, sigh

Expel it all, violently, projectile

But this time I 

Stifled my vices. 

Birds, even great ones

Are sensitive

To smoke and loud noises

To stress and to poisons

To cruelty and voices.

She is hurt, too, so I

silenced my desires and instead

I watched the green hills roll and

I looked back at her occasionally to

See if she had settled.

Slowly she did. 

At first puffed and wary, she

Steadily calmed like a

Frightened feline, 

Puffed and then smoothed out. 

Inside me,

There is a frightened bird

on a long ride.

Her wing broke,

and her throne fell

She is hostile

Vulnerable

Bundle of

Knives and down.

I must stop shouting

And sooth her

And drive her

Safely home. 

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In Pompeii, they found these two skeletons

who evidently spent their last moments together

huddled, nose to nose, under old rubble

"is there any greater intimacy than this?"

i remember asking myself as I looked at them

I remember my grandparents, and

I hope that on the day I leave, 

I'm held in arms of love and 

I hope my hands are graciously and tenderly lifted

as if i'm descending on red carpet

rather than ascending jacob's ladder

but, my unrequited heart aside, 

I still wonder what that morning was like

on the streets of Pompeii

What was the scent on the streets?

baked bread? fresh fish? Was it already snowing in ash?

Did the wind rustle the trees? did children laugh and chase a ball?

Did someone sleep in, delaying their work on the earth?

Did someone skip church?

Was some mother terse? 

Did some father curse?

Did some prodigal child disperse?

where did they all rest at the end of that day?

who was together, and who was alone, on the last living day in Pompeii?

In 2012, a lot of us crossed our fingers,

some hoping for the end, some praying for its delay

the days came and went, and the year passed

some big to-do about a legend and a misread calendar

I was just starting to grow older then,

I didn't know it had only been a mere twelve years 

since the last great and terrible prediction

I didn't know I had already survived another 

end of the world by the time I was six years old.

the sun kept shining, and we kept living,

but nothing felt the same

In grade school, they showed me the pretty planets in the sky

then they pointed at the sun

they mentioned how it could easily burst, 

at any moment, engulfing us all in flame

and, furthermore, the flames would be a mercy to us, 

considering that all the grown-ups had been 

burning up our only planet earth 

about as fast as they could muster

and for as long as we could all remember

if the sun doesn't consume us, 

then we'll do it ourselves, and probably by 2050

but don't you worry about that

you, girl, need only worry about skirt length and spaghetti strap

In NASA, they send capsules into space

filled with things like art and music

trying to put forth the greatest samples 

of what humanity might have to offer

I consider the various sentiments of this,

what kind of message, what are we saying

when we give these things to an imaginary alien?

Are we saying, let's be friends?

Are we asking, are you like me? am I like you?

Are we begging, please, don't kill me, I have intellectual value and complex emotional experience?

Are we hoping that we will 

save humanity from a malevolent master alien race 

by crossing our fingers sending out intergalactic mixtapes?

Will they pardon our beastly crimes just because Earth happened to birth Jazz music?

Imagine this,

a homemade jelly

a hand-knit sweater

a pamphlet from a lecture

a handwritten letter

a locket with a picture

a book with a personal signature

a journal with secrets, confessions, lies

a box of Polaroids

a picture of mom

a mixtape with fifteen favorite songs

an index card with a recipe in impossible cursive

Imagine this,

a string of black cutting through

this specially wrapped care package

a string of black cutting through

pulling, pulling, pulling away into the ink of space

Unraveling these gifts, unraveling with blackness like a sweater’s thread

a black hole, yawning open, eating up your homemade jam

Imagine this,

You've gone back in time to enjoy all the things 

that you are now nostalgic for

The things that now come expensive with a novelty premium

you've got your tamagotchi, and your gameboy,

and your bicycle, and your school bus, 

and your best friend, and your worst friend,

and your phone is chained to the wall,

and you have to wait til Wednesday to watch your favorite show, 

and mom says it's rude to call after six p.m. 

and everything has slowed down to the proper speed of time

and you don't miss the new stuff one bit

and you want to shake everyone and tell them not to do it

whatever this monster is, the beast that is today, please, don't create it,

Begging my past self, at least, please,

look up from your shoes and just look at the sky, really look,

memorize that shade of blue 

and memorize the friendly yellow sun

its hue shifts a bit each year

call me mandela, call me berenstain, 

but i swear, the air has changed from gold and live magenta 

to a creeping beige, a wheezing gray ashtray

imagine this,

it's a nice day

you just woke, and you smell a touch of ash but you think no more of it

the sun is up, but it's alright,

kiss your lover, always gratefully 

and go back to sleep

I create everyday but

it's not what the machine wants to see;

no, he points his wicked finger

out of his poster,

he looks like

uncle sam's image in war, but he

is no better than that sign on the door

at the hooters near me,"now hiring,"

he and his patrons don't want the skills that I've got,

they haven't all along;

all my works and my crafts fall back, withering like

little kids with

pictures for their mothers' fridge.

ever since I was small my body has been all

that they wanted to see. Crass assholes,

Hounding for titties and ass because

to them, happiness is a warm gun.

i hate being hot sometimes

you're so vain, you might say, but no,

being a hot girl is a tight cage.

I wish I had known that as a fat kid but

no one had the heart to tell me and

I'm still not sure which is worse, honestly.

It's like, they like the way you look-

you passed with flying colors, finally,

and you'll never have to lie again,

because your voyeurs will write them all for you, and

no matter how truthful, how good,

you'll always screw up.

I was always trained to play along and

now I don't know how to go out

if not with some glitter and midriff

and posture and watching my back.

That's why I delete all my snaps after taking them.

Like a child, I was always to be seen and not heard.

That's why, now I write, and

delete all my pictures.

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I hate that I think about this,

About you, on Christmas

and holidays even though we

never spent them together at all.

Can't fix it or do anything.

I don't think I could pick up if you did call so

I'll just cry wolf all night instead.

Scoff, roll your eyes, but what harm In this text?

What can be said?

What's there to dread when I'm already dead to you?

And what could you do, then?

Embarrass or hurt me more?

Find more words to destroy with?

And why would you bother?

Why make my life into fodder for insults?

Why try when they pour from your own mouth?

Why, when you're the one who's so eager for leaving,

so easy like Sunday morning?

And why give you the satisfaction of knowing

you hurt me? Well,

why bother pretending I was ever impervious?

You know I would fold for the breath of a bird,

let alone the last words from you.

But of, course,

and as always,

and as you would know,

silence hurts more.

In other words, you win.
In other words, congratulations.

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I enjoy womanhood in seasons, like a migrating bird.

I think being a bird must be a bit like wearing a sundress in springtime.  Maybe it’s a trick of the season, of sunlight, for them as well as for us, but when the light touches you and your plumage blooms for every little turn, twitch, or movement, it’s hard not to feel beautiful, natural, a twittering Snow White to the park squirrels. 

It is dangerous to be a bird, even if they can usually fly. There are traps, and snares, and bird dogs, and mock calls, and snakes, and even bigger birds who can be just as dangerous as a hunter with a gun. It’s dangerous to be a bird for too long, especially when you can’t migrate, because the nature reserves are being sold off for real estate, at an alarming pace. 

I enjoy womanhood in seasons.

I finally told myself I'd leave all the judging to others and just excavate.

I'm not an archaeological expert. 

i'm not indiana jones, i'm just turning stones. 

i'm not here to say what's what, or who's right,

I'm not naming bad guys or good guys. 

I'm not calling the hats black or white. 

I'm just digging.

I swept my life under the rug even as i was living it.

Instead of being snug underneath and in hiding,

instead I felt more like a corpse rolled up in it,

even so, I felt the sweat of the murderer, 

hoping no one sees those feet sticking out.

I felt the desperate hope of the victim as well;

please, discover me. 

Don't punish me for my deeds, let me be free. 

But I’m not a murderer even if my shit is self inflicted.

what's more, a corpse is not a victim anymore;

it's mincemeat, its spirit is free and judgement cant touch it.

all is in the past and now horrible experiences become great stories,

all mistakes and flinches and bad blood included.

I'm not here to explain;

i'm here to spill, to turn stones and to expose bones.

I have no queries now, only clues, and fading blues.

Strangers may be friends waiting to be made,

And then, some friends make the greatest lovers,

But a lover makes the greatest enemy.

The secrets they know. 

The memories that creep.

The hopes that were sowed.

The sorrows we reaped.

What’s more- 

despite the desperate dream of a lonely heart-

A love unrequited is better off remaining as such.

Our dreams must remain behind our eyelids lest we go chasing them before checking their bluff.

I lost my faith and thought nothing sacred anymore.

I threw my heart on the floor.

I left my rules at the door.
I rode every wish like a horse,

And I rode wishes galore,

Begging for more.

I rode, and I rode,  and I flowed through the pipeline.

From strangers to friends, 

To lovers, and then

Suddenly, enemy,

And stranger again. 

I wonder what I did wrong.

I wonder what lucky charm,

What rabbit’s foot I must

Have once had and then dropped.

For so long, it seemed like you’d

Always come back to me; 

So much so, that I began

To rest easy each time you’d leave. 

Just like an ex-wife I rolled my

Old eyes at your candor, your slander and your slammed door

I’d only flick off the lights

And grumble to my arcane mirror, 

my fireplace, my bear-rug, my crystal ball,

That you would always be coming back for more.

I guess I flipped the script.

I guess I did what you did.

I expected your open arms. 

I expected you to stay charmed.

I expected to say jinx and get drinks.

I expected to play and to do no harm.

But the rule of three, the witches’ karma insists that,

In a sense, that, snitches get stitches, 

And hexes will vex the mistress who dealt it.

And so we both felt it

The shots that were fired went full-circle 

and brought down hell on us, 

on our Johnny and June, our Jack-and-Diane, 

Our ride-and-die, our vicious love,

Our Nancy and Sid, our who-done-it,

Was it I who did us in, or

Am I a widow, like Courtney, 

With love and a Hole in my heart?

Was it doomed from the start or

Was it my fault for losing my shit

For saying fuck it and tossing my ticket

My magic moment

Right out of my wallet

Right out of my secret pocket

Right out of my golden locket. 

Was it I who dropped it?

Was it I who stopped the clock

When the crystal ball dropped?

Was it destiny or was it up to me to keep us walking along a thin string?

Did I curse my lucky charm?

Did I eat up all my arm candy?

Did I poison my own brandy

And drink it too,

And will I keep on repeating 

Until the words drop blandly?

Am I a cursed witch, 

or am I just too superstitious?

Share Rue’s Substack

she starts out prim, sweet, and nervous,

tying an apron into a sweet bow

closing her curtains

stammering starts to show through,

with each mistake she makes

things get more chaotic,

forgetting an ingredient or burning something,

dropping an eggshell, burning toast,

and finally halting recording

to regain control of the kitchen enough

to make a salvageable breakfast

And cut to a mix of clean and dirty counter,

and breakfast, great sandwich, masterful, looms,

She looks at it with contempt, avoiding its gaze,

evidently losing her appetite

the sandwich only loses one bite

she wraps it in plastic and sets it aside

time to scroll and review

she looks through

All the bits and the video clips

they all prove to be off in some way,

a stammer, an angle,

a smear on the lens,

a mess in the background,

proof of her lifestyle, barely maintained.

too proud for the bloopers, ashamed, she

Deletes all her footage, disdainful,

her apron, now stained, falls in the hamper

checks her wallet: two dollars, another example

of waste. checks her watch: two o clock,

oh shit, rabbit's late.

…….

she runs to two bus stops and into the city

a different person now, paranoid

Dashing and eyeing every shadow. every corner.

bug eyed and hiding her body, small shoulder,

not even a bright color out here

no. sugar stays inside, with the doors tightly

locked, two times.

bus ride.

one more walk

and then it’s four

punch into work at the door

work. work. check the clock work

work work. check the

lock

Work

work

two o clock

work

clock

three

work

dishes dishes dishes

four

dishes

last bus, boss

gotta run, boss

dart dart dart, dash

but shh

shhh

it's quiet now

shhhh... the bushes are sleeping

shh

….

home

unlock

greasy hair, greasy face

greasy bag in the fridge

greasy collapse on the bed

greasy, five o clock,

lock the door

Five times

dreams

knives thrown

spinning

white and red

spiral

dancing

bullets at the feet

spinning

spinning on a disk, like a bullseye

spinning on a stick, like a candy-eye

bullets

spinning…

wake up!

light

she wakes up, half past nine

she checks her bag, from last night

bleary eyed

a fistful of bucks

thirty-one

roll over

scroll on

new recipe

Red jam, apron pink,

flashback of the dirty sink

close her eyes and shake her head

don't even think about that just yet

make a grocery list instead

flatten her cash

empty her bag

wash up

Dash out again

three o clock?

Map, scout

lock the door

three times now

inconspicuous, again, in sweatpants, gray,

hair, clean, stringy, stray,

ugly and safe in the daylight

dart on out

grocery store

check the time, four a clock

stop by a thrift shop before dark

come home with a bow, like a cherry on top

come home with a glow, come back optimistic

what's the time? six o clock?

Six times she re-locks it

summons her moxie and her gumption and walks to

the sink to scrub everything from yesterday and

also the previous week or so...

the fridge is next.

the mess turns into a sparkling blessing

and grease and sludge all turn clean.

the colors turn pastel

but then she checks the clock.

Two again, in the morning, what the hell

she flinches, even at her own clean dishes,

quickly rinses her face and hands

she lay in bed

she checks her phone

with dread, so many messages

girlfriends asking, "are you dead?"

and then the schedule

tomorrow, wednesday,

a shift, at eleven, which means only

seven more hours for her to sleep.

if she's lucky to count enough sheep to

pass out, that is. she melts, resigned,

checks her watch one more time,

checks her alarms with a whine and

finally closes her eyes.