He Said

She she she is
selfishly coldheartedly
leading me away from me

i suffer from a slavish

Her her her hands
are those of a tormentor
murderer of a man
with golden intentions

he said:
my eyes yes my mind
I would have given
to her to her to her
and and and been her slave,
or her king,
or the dog
slavering at her feet

i i i
i am done
resigned and numb
to wallow in self-pity
and accept my defeat.


dress for my funeral
as if it is the first 
day of spring,

the mythical dogwood white,
the fragrant damp earth,
the newborns unfurling in green

come quickly,
or not at all,
I cannot care

shut away the remains,
or burn what's left 
to ash....

what is a resurrection
without a few laughs?

She Doesn't Speak

As she gazes at
the crows grooming themselves
in the frail limbs

of the few trees
left in her once-
award winning yard.

She can't help but think
they prepare themselves
for her

They rustle
and caw
an esoteric language.

The lawn hasn't been
mown in months.

She pulls her robe up close,
pulling her hands
under the healing warmth.

Destiny marked her long ago,
and set the scenes, and set the props
so carefully into place.

(the widow with
a purring skeletal
cat in her lap

rocks and waits)