gentle

Love Haiku #15

with the flow of your 
body's movements, such grace, like 
a gentle spring breeze

Haunted Honeymoon

Originally published August 25, 2017

A sigh.
A drifting exhale.
An echo of a moan.
A creak,
back and forth,
rocking—or bouncing—
like bed springs.
The whine of the mattress
yields to your convulsions.
A book falls from the shelf—
you don’t stop,
bury yourself underneath
my skin, and there’s a knock
on the wall—hollow—
a whistle down the hall.
A small opening between your
lips where I fit my tongue,
and you bite and you keep going
and you suck the blood as
our bodies slap and the sticky
air sinks on top of us—
Was the door always open?
And my foot slips off the edge,
toes unfurl in the carpet,
feel the vibration get stronger—
You clamp my thighs,
hips tense to fill me—
and in the silence after, suddenly,
the room feels crowded.

Tell Me What Depression Looks Like

Yesterday it was pizza

Tomorrow I’ll crave Chinese

I’ve got to remember to renew my gym membership

But I stop for fries and a latte instead

Credit card statement says I spend too much on food

Self-sabotage my biggest demon

And your voice a thousand ocean breezes away

Whispers, Don’t get fat

As I scavenge my purse for the buy-1-get-1 spicy nuggets coupon

I’m not hungry, I want to sleep

I’m bedridden, and you’re too far to push me out

The other side of the pillow crosses borders

And somewhere you lay your head

Dream of me in an itsy bitsy teenie weenie—

I hate to disappoint, it’s a bit tight

Can’t pull it over my hips

My stomach growls louder than

My heart beating against me for letting you go

But you promised you’d come back

And I promised I wouldn’t get fat—

I guess we’re both liars

#ThrowbackThursday Poetry: No Weapon

“Behold, I have created the blacksmith who blows the coals in the fire, who brings forth an instrument for his work; and I have created the spoiler to destroy. No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and every tongue which rises against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is from Me,” says the Lord.
Isaiah 54:16-17, NKJV

Photo by wu yi on Unsplash

God made dirt, dirt don’t hurt.
The blind blessing we recited
as children over spilled food
on the dirty linoleum before
placing it back in our mouths,
swallowing with the confidence
that because God made it,
we cannot die.

But did God not create man,
and does he not hurt me
every day? From his heart
brews my downfall.
Date rape—
White supremacy—
Mass shootings—
A black, bitter coffee
he drinks with grit,
though it’s still boiling.

Shall I eat this bread
retrieved from a floor
on which a murderer may tread,
dragging my family and me
in a trail of blood behind?
God made him, right?
He cannot hurt us.


A revised version of the untitled original poem published February 4, 2015…may revise again later.

Play Me

Play me like a guitar—
Let your fingers pluck and caress;
Strum my strings until
you find the right chords
to echo my parting lips;
Let your tongue curl as you
feel the rhythm loosen your limbs;
Make love to me in acoustic riffs.
I’ll tell you when to stop—
Our song isn’t over yet