The Poetry Marathon

This randomness is brought
to you by
the letter 2
and the number
Q.

I am having a superlatively
hard time looking at the
house we chose, knowing
it is no longer my house, that
it will never be my home.

I am awkward, a guest,
an interloper into the life
you are building, choices
push us apart, then forward
on separate paths.

I sob, catching in my throat
the “Stop – NO!” that wants
to leap forth as I drive away,
my possessions block the rearview,
I cannot say good-bye.

I was a rocket ship
always at Cape Canaveral
waiting for a punch to my ignition
that would launch
me into the stratosphere.

Over the years I taught myself
to maintain a very even 30MPH.
Less stress to the chassis
easier on the engine, keeping
me on the road forward.

Now, with you, I am back
inside my tender psyche
trying to maintain life on
the straight and narrow but
my emotions are funny like this.

So I am high and I am low,
I move left then quickly to the right
thoroughly enjoying the ranges
speeding along past my window with
me moving zero – sixty.

The hieroglyphics are etched
into the bones.
Messages from the past lives or
carrying instructions into the future.

Linquist? Anthropologist?
Who shall read the symbols
as they were intended or
as they prophesize?

Doctors? Physicists?
Who can explain these stories
on my bones, in my living tissue
found by modern technology.

Parents? Friends?
Who will be another to join me
as we decipher
why this internal code exists.

I wonder if …

If I could bite off a piece
of your flesh.
If I can swallow it make it
a part of me.
If that will ensure our never
being separated.

Silvery ripples across my hips
flowing thickly towards my thighs
unnoticed until the sun bronzes my skin
but leaves these symbols untouched.

I cup my bare breasts, lifting
turning this way and that to catch
a twinkle. Faintly, twins of the
lower branches wink in the light.

My belly escaped these cicatrix
internalizing its own failures
by heads tucked into rib cages
pressing lungs for months on end.

When the life has drained
all that’s left are the scars
like grooves on the bottom of
an ancient, dried creek bed.

In your palm and I feel it
when I hold your hand.

In the baby’s cry and I feel it
knowing the world goes on.

In your voice and I feel it
when you whisper good morning.

In the dog tag’s jangle and I feel it
as he rushes to meet me at the door

In my fingertips and I feel it
as I text “I love you”.

In the small moments that exist and I feel them
even though I am often too busy to notice.

I smile because in the stillness
I feel fully our emotions.
I sink into your essence which is
a fragrant almond oil perfuming
my skin.

I immerse into the warm thickness of it
how it cocoons me, closes in with
security and sanctuary.
This stillness allows time for
my pores to absorb all
that you offer.

My skin glistens with it, breaths out
your scent. Your fingertip’s
whorls and swirls
permanently tattooed underneath
my skin.

The power of your tenderness
the delicate nature underlying
your strength keeps
me irrevocably bound to you
as long as you choose to
grant me this gift.

Big B, little b what begins with B?

Booze.
I don’t drink as much as I used to,
but the way the lips bop together
on the B and then
the kissable shape from the
oooooooooooooooooo,
followed by the buzzing
ZZZZZZZ.

It’s a nice word.

Sometimes I am sad
Green-eyed cri de coeur hasten
down pale Irish cheeks.

When my third eye sees
the beauty of your old soul
my heart skips a beat.

Ennui as quicksand
your hand pulls me to safety
blood moon guards us both.