In Progres...

It’s hot out and my mouth tastes like the window screen
Holding me suspended in a second-story apartment, surrounded
By brick and mortar and the hot, black pavement laid fresh
That morning by the dark-skinned men in dirty jeans. I put the radio
In the window so they could hear it, I don’t look at them but
I know they’re looking at me, I’m only fourteen but I know what my
Legs look like in their eyes. Later I’ll think about their daughters
At home, my age, what do they think about then?

Summer winds are too lazy to even try to be a comfort, the heat
Too heavy for them to blow around. Through the screen I catch the scent of
Chlorine from the pool but it won’t open for another hour. No one
Comes out yet, it’s ten in the morning, too early to play and too late to sleep.
Flip flops on the hot sidewalk waiting for the ice cream man to come by
Only one dollar for the malt cup and seventy five cents for a bomb pop for my
Sister. Our hair streaked blonde from hours in the pool, baby oil suntans
Turn our skin golden brown, white scars stand out as medals of honor from
Jumping our bicycles over curbs and swinging tennis rackets at
Each other instead of at the ball.

Another Place

In traffic we’re sitting and I’m watching
The world around me.
In front of me is a red pickup truck,
An older couple inside, hands at ten and two,
Sitting up straight and driving the speed limit.

I close my eyes and climb in with them
And we go home.
I lay on the bathroom floor, cool on my skin.
Rose petal pink tiles like ice cubes, smooth and
Shiny. The room smells like baby powder and
Decade old Estee Lauder. An ashtray sits on the sink,
Small brown circles on the counter where the
Cigarette has snuck down to kiss the granite.

Sun glides through the curtains over the toilet,
Caressing dusty bottles of age old beauty, brown
And thick. A silver tray with mirrored bottom reflects
A rounded back, a grey head, a spine curved by
Time.

Diphtheritic

Diphtheritic
(inspired by A Prayer For the Dying)

A single cough of misted blood
From the sick throat of the child.
The fever spreads like spilled water,
Filling in the empty lungs of neighbors.
It starts with the children, the weakest link.
Spreads from a kiss, a gentle breath, from
Mother to son, from son to neighbor.
Before five are dead, four more die
By their own hands, families hung in the
Barn rafters, babies with bullet holes,
A far better death than lingering in a fevered
Torment of drowning in blood.
Men line the boundary with rifles to keep
The sick in and the healthy out, to keep
The disease from spreading like trash in
A strong wind. Families flee in the night,
Shots sound in the air.
A fever and a cough started a spreading
Infirmity that turned into a much
Worse contagion, passing from family
To family –
Death.

Sestina 1 - Edit 1

Six Ways to Die

Blistering in the summer sun,
Skin sticky and hot to the touch.
Cracks in the pavement, in the dirt.
Light so bright it blinds the eye.
Insects hide beneath the shade
Hot wind or no wind,

Never blows a cold wind.
Under the angry eye of the sun,
There is barely a refuge found in the shade.
No desire even for a lover’s touch.
A hand raised to shade the eye –
A small wind raises a swirl of dirt.

Wet strands of hair, skin covered in powdered dirt,
Plastic wrapped, protected from the dirty wind.
Bleached land, but the blue plastic catches the eye –
Of two men walking, oblivious to the sun,
Necks burned from the sun’s touch.
Flesh tone turns an angry red shade.

Eyelids squinted, closed to shade
Soft tissue from missiles of dirt.
Searching for another man, a touch
Of reality through the wavering land, wind,
And heat. The relentless sun
Playing tricks on a wary eye.

A dust devil with a two-foot eye
Spins in the distance. The shade,
Now a shelter not only from the sun,
But the living formations that dirt
Generates with the cutting wind
That seek blood and ruin with their touch.

A battered truck sits, brown with a touch
Of red, creaking. A headlight like one eye,
The other gone. One man spits into the wind,
Glances at the man in the shade,
Wipes from his chin the dribbled dirt,
And eyes the afternoon sun.

The sun touches, takes the shade.
Grit between the teeth, eyes full of sweat and dirt:
The wind is no relief when the devil’s in the sun.

Between Us All

Link to my short story called "Between Us All".
NOTE: I am not a good short story writer.

Between Us All

Villanelle 2

Madness

It is not her blood that is on my hands!
(His madness creeps in while he sleeps.)
He cannot keep with her demands

She batters him, he misunderstands.
(His madness creeps in as he weeps.)
It is not her blood that is on my hands!

Her pearls now loose from broken strands
(His madness creeps in glorious sweeps.)
He cannot keep with her demands.

Others see the agony he withstands
(His madness creeps in rather deep.)
It is not her blood that is on my hands!

Midnight he can still hear her commands.
(His madness creeps and then it keeps.)
He cannot keep with her demands.

Around her neck he tied the silken bands
(His madness creeps, his mind – it leaps.)
It is not her blood that is on my hands!
He cannot keep with her demands.

Sestina 1

Six Ways to Die

Blistering in the summer sun,
Skin sticky and hot to the touch.
Cracks in the pavement, in the dirt.
Light so bright it blinds the eye.
Insects hide beneath the shade
Hot wind or no wind.

Never blows a cold wind.
Under the angry eye of the sun,
Barely a refuge found in the shade.
No desire even for a lover’s touch.
A hand raised to shade the eye –
A small wind raises a swirl of dirt.

Strands of hair, skin covered in layered dirt
Plastic wrapped, protected from the dirty wind.
Scorched land, but the blue plastic catches the eye.
Two men stand, oblivious to the sun,
One hand burned from the car’s touch.
Flesh tone turns an angry red shade.

Eyelids squinted close to shade
Soft tissue from missiles of dirt.
Searching for another man, a touch
Of reality through the mirage of wind
And heat and the relentless sun,
All playing tricks on a wary eye.

A dust devil with a two-foot eye
Shudders from the distance. The shade
A refuge now from not only the sun,
But the living forms that dirt
Spawns with the briary wind
That seek blood and ruin with their touch.

A battered truck, brown with a touch
Of red pulls up, creaking. A face, one eye
Gone. The man spits into the wind,
Glances at the figures still in the shade,
Wipes from his chin the spittled dirt
And eyes the afternoon sun.

The sun touches, takes the shade
Grit between the teeth, eyes of sweat and dirt:
The wind is no relief when the devil’s in the sun.