Beneath the upturned dirt

that lies beside the tombstone,

bleeding hearts weep

and run down to the pond’s

shoreline, blending with

the wrenching croaks

of the bullfrog, cries

escaping its belly.

 

Generations leave white roses

carefully placed along the

cold marble stone’s bottom—

some laced with regret,

others sorrow, and still more

with cherished memories.

 

Seasons past, the bullfrog

wishes goodbye to the swan

only to welcome him

again come spring.

 

A little boy wipes the

dew that’s kissed his father’s headstone

before running to the lake,

leaving his mother behind

in a distant memory,

to see how the milkweed pods have opened.

Two pauses upon

reaching the door,

silent intakes of breadth

while avoiding

each other’s eyes.

The cricket’s legs scrape

and the lightening bug glows

luminous beyond the

dreadful porch light.

In the blinding gaze

the unsure lovers

are suspended in time.

She grasps the keys in her hand,

poised to unlock the door,

glancing at him longingly,

willing him to read her mind.

He stands there

looking down at her,

sweaty hands in his jean pockets;

her head, almost unnoticeably,

shakes as she looks down and

begins to twist the key,

when his hand slowly reaches

for the knob and

keeps her from stepping

through the threshold.

She stands rooted to the ground,

firm, an old oak tree. A pair

whispers—

toe nails painted

blue, meticulous

as her mother’s—

slyly, with the grace

of a fox, stepping through

blades of grass

squirming beneath.

Bare, plump, soft

but hardened from dirt,

gravel, filth. Once

doubting their smoothness,

tangerine lotion soothed

his fear of touching

her scarred, experienced feet.

These sheets on my bed know memories

more detailed than my own,

more forgiving than my nature.

The dirt stains know no history

other than the remnants

of grass and sweat, tears

from undelivered goals and pent up frustration.

Blood laced with alcohol

after falling up stairs

or unattended wounds that went unnoticed.

The folds from tossing and turning,

fabric flung away from heat and relentless

exhaustion at not falling asleep.

Arms that soothe and hold

when in sickness or ill moods,

kissing away black eyes

and keeping the dawn at bay

against the persevering neighboring shades.

The grey has felt lovers,

remembering those I chose to forget.

Memories lie between these sheets,

without hatred, regret, or judgment,

still giving comfort all the days

and nights I rested within.

“Happiness is never stopping to think if you are.”

Bus tires squeal, coffee pots gurgle,

alarm rings blare

get up, get up

don’t stop, don’t stop.

Throw flour, smear the

cake frosting, kitchen tiles

were meant to be wiped down.

Rake mazes of crisp

mahogany & orange leaves,

play tag with the little

ones who keep you young.

Skip pebbles on the shore

before bright-eyed rainbow

crusted skies bid goodnight.

Tap high heels on

bubble gum cement sidewalks,

dashing in & out of

forgetful neon bars.

Repeat, repeat

don’t think, don’t think

no cop no stop;

kiss hand, touch ceiling

bye bye red light.

Broke the vase this morning,

that one that used to sit upon our dining room table.

The flowers inside

complimented one another,

where the dull colors brightened

as the light from the others shone.

The vase

that once sparkled in the sunlight

now lies shattered on the floor,

a million pieces

broken,

edges sharper than knives,

cutting my hands as I

pick up the pieces.

Blood on my hands

won’t wash asway,

won’t dry,

staining the single white rose

withering on our black linoleum,

alone.