Big Sister Blues

 Big Sister Blues

I can see beneath the decay,
the water-logged wood, the rusted metal
to summers past when you and I would run
heedless to the wind.

We would pose ourselves--bronzed statues
at the edge of the dock and curl our toes under the lip of wood
to balance childish bodies.

Waiting for weightlessness,
I would stare into the endless bottom,
black beneath a rippled sun.

I knew you lusted for the ladder,
afraid to jump, fearing air beneath your feet.
But those curious tickles in my stomach
made me push you screaming
into the icy lake.

I believe you wanted me to do it,
even when you cried--to force the unknown
around you, into your nostils and mouth.
You spit me out with the water, climbed up and walked away.

And I never said, "I'm sorry."

Unfinished Business

My heart is incomplete.
It's missing pieces; like Osiris
lost in the Nile, they cannot be found.
Unfortunately, fertile imagination and myth
have no power to replace the parts.
Every day the empty spaces
remind me of what's been stolen.

Beachside Arguments

Beachside arguments--
they smelled of old sunshine and salt.
Familiar and sometimes welcome.

You irritated me like sand caught between my toes.
So, it was necessary to behave like a child,
picking at scabs until you bled coppery ters.

I felt better watching you cry.
Even in the shade, we would not retreat
from the undulating unrest.

Your voice filled my ears like water
and I drowned in my guilty pleasure
of causing you pain.

And So We Dance

And so we dance
to keep the demons distanced.
Swirling together we forget.
We hide the hatred when I feel
your hand upon my back,
my fingers pressed into your chest.
Sliding against each other
you and I create some heat
and a friction that feels
like happiness.

Take a Chance

I am possibility incarnate.
I am choice unlimited.
I am escape.
Come take a ride.

Make a decision to leave this place
and we'll feel fatalism fade.
Behind us,
desperation goes soft focus.

Take a chance,
turn left or right,
but don't look back or we may turn to salt.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning breaks bright white
across the red brick wall and recessed door.
Cutting cleanly through the night,
sharp and tangy like isopropyl alcohol
lingering in my nose.

The party is over, the debauchery done.

Sunday morning cracks wide open
with a hangover squint and daggered eyes.
Swallowing nocturnal sonic vibrations
like a shot of mouthwash, minty fresh.

The dancing is finished, go home.