Poetry

Watering can

After all the hours of pin-pointed work, no end in sight of the path,

I can’t help but dream and long for the touch of a hot, comforting¬†bath.

 

To soak up all my sour maturity, ease out my twisted frowns,

wriggle out of my seriousness and stay awake, lest I accidentally drown.

 

Eternity in such a healing pool might prune my fingers and toes,

but I can say, without a shadow of doubt, that I’m no delicate rose.

Poetry

Once more, the quest

The trees are thinning now.

You grab my hand as I make

to sweep a branch from our way,

breath held in, tight, coiled.

Easy, you say. Easy.

I want to be rash! I want to be bold!

I know you’re right.

We have to wait, wait

until the sun dies and the ground

weeps at its parting,

until the moon sharpens the tip of the pennants

snapping to in the breeze.

Then, only then, can we move.

If only time didn’t halt at your closeness.

Poetry

Wield

When at last the deed was done, I slid the knife

back between my ribs for safekeeping.

I’ve been told many times that it’s not safe

to run with a knife in hand, even if you’re already dead.

Imagine slicing off the end of your nose.

How would you explain that to the charming young man

who you were supposed to be meeting for dinner

that evening?