A Glut Of Afterglow

During every weekend you’ve given me,
it’s like there’s a glut of afterglow and
we’re waitin’ for the greasy hash browns
at Joe’s Diner when we’re spent from lovin’.
At 2am, you say, “Play number 14, Babe.”
It’s Frank, always Frank, and my feet are
bare resting on yours, forget the hash browns.


Sparkling Champagne

I have wanted to write you
about the end of day samba
in the corner. How it flashes
furiously of gold – the sun’s
sparkling champagne –
in one of many ways nature
writes love letters. I have
wanted you to see it as I have
since they took the dead tree
and left behind the most
beautiful light orchestra!

When God Was 8, Too

I asked God if he had a best friend.
I asked Him if He was inside lions, too.
I asked Him what hurt Paris. Then I
changed my mind. I made a deal with
Him: if I stayed close, He would, too.

I asked Him about Mom’s wine spritzers.
He didn’t know. I said that He could talk
too sometimes. I told on my Dad when he
hit Mom the time I hid in the closet. Dad
stopped living with us after that. God
moved away, too.

Where We’d Jump Off and In

The dock where crabs would hang
onto the bait in cold waters of mid-June,
then fall away and back in – where

he always made sure I got in
the dinghy safely on Sunday mornings,
my white pumps in hand, my life jacket

wrinkling my new summer dresses
as we motored our way to church
from the island where we became
engaged – having fallen in love forever,

jumping off and in.