we were a threaded musical

of tangled limbs & twisted sheets,

violent strokes of horsehairs on cello strings,

a crescendo of slick sweat & heated kisses;

a sloppy passion ignited

over bar stools & tequila shots,

extinguished in a single

rush of hot air when you broke

the captivating silence of the night

with talk about a forever–

that’s not how this goes.

I could spend my life behind closed lids

& bundled in your old sweatshirt, soaking

in your smell–why didn’t I ever learn

the type of aftershave you used?–

pretending I’m wrapped in your arms.

I could spend my life under closed lids

& leave the photographs in boxes–

two-dimensional images won’t bring you back–

next to your favorite running shoes.

I could spend my life inside closed lids

but not in this bed, in these sheets,

where you last kissed me on the forehead

before leaving for work–I can’t handle

these emotions, want to bottle them up.

I could have spent the rest of my life with you

but now I’ll settle for closed eyelids.

Don’t tell me you’re over him

when you look in the mirror & still see

everything

he said was wrong with you,

every flaw & every scar–

I promise you, he never

looked close enough–

instead of all the reasons why

I love you,

all your beauty & all your strength–

those scars are proof.

Don’t tell me he’s in the past

when you refuse to believe

you are good enough,

you are

enough.

you would clasp my hand in yours

& I loved it, how we walked

down the street together.

you would open doors for me

& I thought you the perfect

gentleman, until I realized

my hand

was clasped

in yours,

you weren’t letting go;

you always walked ahead

expecting me to follow,

dictating our path;

& you stood there waiting

when I opened doors for you,

refusing me the courtesy.

We were never on equal ground,

I never needed to be saved,

but you wanted to be Superman

when I preferred Clark Kent.

The still heart’s

flimsy lining

stretches like a band.

Wrenches & betrayed knives

render the innocent beat

calm & dry.

O save, it palpates

in its failing cry,

I’m not made of steel.

You gave me your heart

on a silver platter;

of course, I didn’t know

that’s what it was.

You had favored goodbyes

over hellos,

a pillow to spoon

rather than easy banter;

in public, the quick peck

on the cheek

over having my taste

on your lips—

squeezing my ass:

your preferred form

of appropriate PDA.

I threw it all away.

For what? Your eyes begged.

Something better, I silently cried.

I didn’t ask to be held

on a pedestal, your polished trophy.

Raise me up, hold me

dear, show me love—

I loved your words

until they fell short,

flat at our feet & running

off to the gutter

in the downpour.

Turns out, I’m taking your lead

& favoring goodbye.

His shoes are two sizes

too small, the toes press tight

to the tip. Nikes: white, grey, brown, red;

a rainbow of filth and dirt

perfectly matching his skin,

clothes. Giants sweatshirt,

beige dusted corduroy jacket

with holes a fist sized wide.

The jeans, once denim blue,

now faded to match the bubblegum

spat concrete he so effortlessly—

without hesitance—sits on, legs outstretched.

His hand, up and out, palm open, pleading—

unlike his turned down head.

His hand—overgrown nails

and caked with dirt—reaches for the coffee can

lying beside his leg: shake, shake, shake;

empty air, the rattle does not sound.

He looks up—a quick second—

a continuously busy street: the first time

emotion is etched

on his rag beard face. Disappointment

carves itself into the lines,

the hollowed out eyes. People race by,

stepping over and around him—

they notice him, avoiding

the city’s shame—

in a rush to get to somewhere better:

home to safe shelter,

their hearty meal cooked by a loved;

a high-end boutique to pack,

their closet with more never to be worn clothes;

the coffee shop to fulfill,

their caffeine fix fueled by gossip;

the jewelers to prove

their love for another—compassion,

we lack it for strangers.

“Don’t give him money,” the mother

warns her daughter—wasted cash

on cigarettes and alcohol.

The homeless are bums—no

ambition, dreams, drive.

False! Lies!

Some, no hope, faith, love.

“Compassion,” Sympathy whispers,

“makes this cruel world worth it.”

Two water bottles lie unnoticed

with the deli sandwich beside the can

until the change

from the twenty spent

clinks against tin.

Hope. His eyes dart up, confusion

pierced with faith.

Rebellion allows it:

compassion will reign.

---

I’m so stuck with this poem. Have been for months. I can’t get it where I’m entirely happy with it. The diction, tense, and line breaks keep messing with me. Some odd months down the road I’ll revisit it, again. Until then I’m sharing the pain caused by its begging criticism with anyone whose eyes are unlucky enough to read it.

She bursts through the door, garnished

in white: tutu, shortened silk corset, wings,

heightened by silver platform stilettos;

the angel has arrived, no less of a sinner

 

than the angel of death, clad in black,

standing behind. Ankle boot heels with a peep

toe, equally striking in lace and leather,

wings firmly pressed—angelical all the same.

 

Skin revealing, slutty, provocative—

innocence gone awry—

this one time a year such is allowed.

Where did the princesses

 

run off to—their steely men of gothic

horror waiting, drooling, expecting.

Dress to impress—the object

of other girls’ jealousy, a many guys’ desire.

 

The cop in her stunna shades assaults

Mario with the ready baton at her hip—

longer than her black shorts—thank

the Lord for the fishnet lace tights.

 

Over strong drinks, salty tears, and sweaty dances,

girls lose their faces: mascara smears, red

lipstick is kissed aside, memories fade and scenes collide

before the blackouts come shortly after midnight.

 

Oh pretty, the witch will get you—

save that next drink for another time,

when the devil isn’t preying

on you stumbling home in the dark.