Being Born

I don't remember being born,
my mother's face, or my father,
barely old enough to shave.
I don't remember being lifted
into sterile space -
my toes without nails,
my tenderest openings undone.

None of us is truly finished.
The cut umbilical cord
slowly regrows itself
like a lizard's tail,
and what lizard's tale has ever
had a happy ending?
None of us

remembers being born,
the child faces of our mothers,
or our fathers, barely old enough
to shave.

linked to Open Link Night at dVerse

Rushing

There is rain on your breath when you lie
in the shine of my silver tresses -
bankrupt bones, but beautiful

and rushing

into my muscled arms and silence.
I am your house of ill repute
on the banks of your river, bankrupt,

but rushing.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Capsules

I'm afraid of these capsules
clattering in my gut.
I'm afraid they won't work.
I'm afraid they will, but

will dissolve me

from the inside out
loosen my limbs
and loosen my mouth

to a trumpet vine sounding
nothing but Taps

choral,
clipped,
and flat.

The Strangest Rain

It was the strangest rain
that star fall night

mare galloping.  Hooves
churning and hurling

hunks of the black
eye sky.

Blind, it left me, blind;
my tongue forked with wishes.

Goddess bound and blind -
bridled to ride.

For Midweek Motif~Meteor Showers at Poets United

Dumbo

An elephant is Dumbo.
A tiger is a Tigger.
A clownfish is a Nemo,
until a child grows bigger

and is sent off to a teacher
who schools the proper names.
Elephus maximus is correct,
but it doesn't feel the same!

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

The Thing

It's not the thing,
it's the description.
Sun squint amber eyes.
A tangled mane,
thick and coarse.
Muscle and roar and fire.

It's not the thing,
it's the description -
the sweet, savanna sigh

of a lion
or the lie
of a man.

For the Poetry Pantry at Poets United

The Revisionist

He cried for Lee in Carolina.

Appomattox an afterthought.

He spends his nights in crisp white sheets;

his nights hooded like a hawk.

The revisionist lives and breathes his history

and dreams the South will someday rise

again; till then, he stands a rebel

monument to misplaced pride.

For The Tuesday Platform at  Real Toads

Rapunzel, Rapunzel

Woman with Long Hair

Man Ray (1929)

Tress the tower gold!

I will save you by your hair!

calls a good by grounded man.

He seems harmless standing there,

but he hides scissors

     behind

          his back.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

November

These blind November days,
these layers of brick and bone!
These nights of slow stars and stones
skipped across the water of the moon -

Remember June?
The full throated songs
of summer carried on a breath,
the blood sun burning overhead -

Death is next.
All that's left of the roses is the thorns.
What will keep you warm when your heart turns on itself?
What will keep you warm when its November and nothing else?

For Get Listed at Real Toads

A Saint's Heart

bleeds
without ceasing
wetting the trinket box
its locked in and hallowing
the ground.

for Father Stanley Rother

Submitted to Midweek Motif ~ Saints at Poets United