Category: Poetry

In this country, a father walks out & never returns. Truth! & a mother is a shadow. In the night, she covers the home

with her body. Her fingers are nimble for the tears she must hide.

Poets never look like their poems.

This one ends with you wearing a tunic

as blue as a cornflower clasped

by a golden brooch, and your fearless glare,

and the sword, the bloody sword.

I want to slyly install my sadness

Into your brain, like malware. Load it

And explode it.

Seaside mountebanks bemuse.

Practiced hands and eyes

contrive to extricate your

trick of hearts with some

success.

Working led to questioning of the promises lingering, not quite upheld, and with no end in sight.

The maidens stand

At attention: masked

And gloved, they ask

My name.  When will

I forget my birth date?