This poem made me laugh when I read it back. An ode to the other fork lickers out there. I hope I am not alone.
I like the taste of polished metal forks imprinting my tongue with its tines.
That is why I licked the fork in the road that spread before me.
Hard metal has a way of opening your eyes to the last supper.
He never understood my desire to lick forks.
His desire was to stab.
But, I play nicely with forks.
It is the only way to eat cake.
Death did us part,
and now I slowly crinkle like shreds of paper with the wrong words.
I flake like the dust I came from,
and I sit pretty and mindlessly hum,
a song about the path of cranes in the sky on their way.
All because he didn’t like my hair that day.
I have to wait patiently,
be still and faintly smell my wild, sweet animal tucked away in the corner.
Only when I am perfectly quiet and my odor blends with the dank musk of the forest will he appear.
Then, one day he might be mine.
Until that day, I will wait out on a limb for him, alone and in the rain.
The backs of my legs hurt, so I know he is out there.
I can feel this man,
me in the morning.
I wake up and ache for this man who I do not know.
The good nature yolk
some have hasn’t been broken
by outside forces.
Thank you, sun and shine,
in the stone winter of bones.
You arrange my thoughts.
Growing up meant a no-line on the volume knob where you are not allowed to go past because of a wall separating us from the neighbors. It meant calls about our cooking smells and muddy soccer shoes being tied to trees.
Our house is music.
Each room thumps with vibrancy.
Love makes lots of noise.
Now we have a house where we can play music above the no-line. Love isn’t quiet. It hollers back at you, saying, “I love this song. Turn it up.”
I want to be with you like
two binary stars
circling around each other
for millions of years.
I want dual floating brightness during the darkest nights.
Holding hands around
a Douglas fir in the square
with branches of hope.
A Christmas pomegranate martini
pairs nicely with Dolly Parton
and sky blue candles on a chilly
I am feeling the holiday joy!!
Here is my haiku for you today.
The internment camps
for small breasted women will
be a waste of time.