3WW: Dignity, Lacerate, Ripe

Trees

Leaves
ripe as apples

Vines
cling like a child

Bark
a coat of dignity

Branches
pray

My husband
was a logger

He'd pull
the cord

on his
chainsaw

and lacerate
one by one

Saplings
smiled

lifting
their faces

to the naked
sun.

3WW: Affair, Expectation, Free

Sharp slices
of brightness
slash my morning
blinds.

I'm sitting in bed
with no expectation
of anything
for today.

Free hours
are maple syrup
sticky and sweet.
I should get up,

open the blinds,
make breakfast.
Instead, I've begun
an affair with laziness.


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Distance for Sunday Scribblings

The boat rocks.
Birds fly around
eating the chum
my husband
put out.

We sit,
waiting for a tuna
to take our bait.
"I blind the mackerel,"
he says, "because

if they see a tuna
coming, they'll
try to avoid it."
I picture
that fish

doomed to swim
around and around,
go nowhere
and, now, can't
even see

the aqua bubbles,
the sun melting
through the water,
other fish,
and his death.

We are quiet.
"I wish you hadn't
told me that,"
I say through
the lump

in my throat.
He laughs.
I get up
but there is no
place to go.

I need to put distance
between us,
The sun blinds me.
I can't see how
to get away.


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3WW: Feel, Shade, Tangle

I know there is a poem
resting in the shade
of my brain.

I can feel its shadow
lurking just
out of sight.

It's an angry thing,
a monster,
waiting for the right

moment to lumber
awake, stomp the ground,
untangle itself

from the branches
of sweetness
I've so carefully

arranged around it.
I hear it grunting,
feel the vibrations

of its snort, smell
the stink of its truth.
I peer at it,

try to bring it into
focus, but it slinks away,
that cowardly lion

of resentment.
Not yet, not yet, it says
but soon.


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3WW: Fog, Lenient, Struggle

Sand, like wet cement,
sucks at my sneakers
as I walk along the foggy

shore.

My sharp thoughts
cut through, separating
the halves of my

life.

I struggle forward
trying to make a decision
where only I will

win.

My lenient ways
have masked my true
feelings for so many

years.

A stray wave builds,
builds, fast, faster,
gains momentum,

slaps

me in the face, wakes
me up. I head home,
the same person, still

gray.


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3WW: Bloody, Kinky, Tender

There is only one
little smear
of morning sunlight
left on my kitchen floor.  

I woke up too late
to enjoy a couple hours
of solitude.

He's already making
awake noises
so this will have to be
a quick poem.  

Too bad I can't think
of anything
to write about.  

No bloody emotions
lately. No kinky past-
times to secretly enjoy.
My days have been

unusually soft and tender
like a mound  
of bread dough

we've been kneading
and kneading and, finally,
it can rest and rise. And I think
he's even fallen back to sleep.

One Single Impression: Shells

Shells

She's wearing
her Hello Kitty
bathing suit
today. We walk
along the beach
at Cayo Costa
State Park
in Florida.
We are looking
for butterfly shells.

That's what Kylie
calls them. When
they are open,
they look like they
could fly away.
Her favorites
are pure white
like angel wings.
Mine are the ones
that look like sunrises.

She finds a half one
and picks it up
to discover
it's still alive.
She helps it
back to the water.
"If the shell is empty,
does that mean
it's dead?" she asks.
"I'm afraid so."

She's quiet for a moment.
"My dad took a bunch
of pills and I
couldn't wake him up."
We walk hand-in-hand
for a minute. "You
we're so smart
to call your mom
and get help for him."
I squeeze her hand.

She bends down
to pick up another shell.
This one is pale pink.
She examines it
for life and finds
it pulsing.
In the water it goes.
"Let's just look
for live ones
from now on."