Butterfly

Who ever heard of the butterfly,
Born purely and très naïve,
(And patterned wings so rare to come by!)
Curling back up, into the insipid brown chrysalis to die?
Never.
So…

Why do we become, that which we most hate?

Because we understand the pain, that is to desecrate.

My wings had felt the delectable breeze in every morning sky,

Until one day they shook with the weight of a thousand fractured lies.

And now I lay a crumpled thing, on a dirty floor,

With my own voice in my head,

Sadist, sicko, whore.

Boston Harbour

Black ripples,
wash against familiar granite,
worn smooth in time
with clanking halyards.

The granite seawall
remembers my heels,
banging silently
to the pulse
of my harbor.

The wind, here,
always carries away
the weight from my chest,
on a seaweed breeze.

I don't know
that behind me,
is a comatose city
that can't hear
the rigging's laughter
or taste the veritable calm,
that I cannot live without.

To Build a Hill

Today, I pulled a small, grateful ant
off the back of my tongue.

I was shocked.
I stared at my palm,
I watched little red legs wriggle franticly,
Before I swiftly flung him into the grass.

Hours later, pressed hard against the wall of my shower,
I cried.

Most days, I am the ant.
To be atomic, in an astronomic world,
Is grueling.

Not often enough,
Do we build our own hill,
But wait to be pulled,
From off the back of a tongue.

Poem Response to Dad's Poem

I barely remember life without loss,
When clouds weren't just clouds,
but a fish or a cow,
Blind now, I march to make it across.

I do not ever reminisce,
these days are gone,
tears all
They fill up my cardiac abyss.

The Couch

A couch.
A symbol the world recognizes,
And criticizes, easily.
Legs crossed carefully,
I let it pull me into its core.

As I open my heavy mouth to speak,
Each offering tumbles away without grace,
Or hesitation.

Dark roast becomes cold on the adjacent table,
Neighboring the Kleenex.

Most times I avoid using gaze,
She knows.
I know.
It is how I do.

I open the red door with white teeth,
The door that conceals spinning treasures,
A hard job to decode?
Maybe.

She reminds me of her past advice,
I remind her of my past.

The carpet needs to be cleaned.
Is that a cobweb in the corner?

This couch and I go way back.
It relishes the taste of my salty sadness.

I am reviewing the situation.
Checking off each item on my to-do list.
Did I mention,
The aggression?
Or when I forgot the guidance she bequeathed?

We both check the illuminated digital clock.
Eyes meet at once.
Embarrassed.

I sign the check and pat my old friend fondly.
Until next week.

The Easter Dress

Thin, itchy dress,
Naked feet,
And a tummy full of colored eggs and chocolate,
She slips between the warm sheets,
And falls asleep.

Her mind dances,
Remembering egg hunts:
Soft green grass,
Cadbury’s golden sweets,
And the surprise of always winning.
She dreams of roast lamb,
Of grandparents,
Of family holding her close.

She wakes,
To find herself still in the clutches
Of the itchy Easter dress.
She grabs a yellow blanket,
And with feet still bare,
She tiptoes to the porch.

A yellow mass huddling on the plastic chair,
Sunrise still an hour away,
She drags her sleepy eyes over dark blue skies,
And lights her cigarette.

Nineteen years.
She wonders how many more are left;
Where chocolate eggs will appear attractive,
And Easter dresses, however itchy,
Are still adored.

By Your Side

I would like to stand by your side
as the worlds collide,
As the sky slowly falls,
my heart entwined, falls too.
I would dance in your solid embrace,
while heavenly ash clings to my face.
I wouldn't mind if the world fell apart,
if only I had you to keep hold of my heart.

Tureen

I am,
A soup tureen that hasn’t seen the likes of chowder, or minestrone or vichyssoise,
In ages. I’m empty. Sullied. Still sticky with the residue from vegetables.

I am,
A soccer ball that hasn’t seen the likes of grass, or children or even a cleat,
In ages. I’m deflated. Lifeless. Left bruised and drained in the back of your garage.

I am,
An acerbic old woman who hasn’t seen the likes of passion, or warmth, or her cycle,
In ages. I’m hollow. Barren. Still existing with the memory of miniature hands and feet.

I want soup. Not your soup, don’t touch me. I want my soup.
My steaming, torrid elixir, my soup with ferocious lions and dainty songbirds.
And I want air. Not your air, your gray smog—I want life and oh, I want to feel.

The Flight

Imagine the flight of one dusty flake,
From the blue azure atmosphere,
It’s perilous journey,
Among trillions and trillions,
Cold and wet,
In descent.

The time it takes to become,
To mature,
The time it takes to descend,
And dazzle a trillion eyes,
In splendid,
Unique,
Elegance,

Is consequential,
When one imagines,
The final leg of the trip:
Its soft, swift, gauzy landing,
Onto a woolen hat,
The pink tip-of-tongue,
Or into a misshapen snowball.

A journey.
Is this the end?
Does the little powdered crystal,
Have a chance?
Life for this luxurious flake is not,
In the distance traveled,
From cloud to earth,
Or either palm to target.