Coffee and Paint

All of living is an art – messy,

brilliant, painted and repainted. Life

spills a deep red wine across canvas

meant for greater things. What

can you do? Mop the spill, find

colors to complement or

conceal. Take some old advice,

paint it black like some soggy velvet

Elvis. Wiser hands might braid

twine to gold in a day’s time,

weave bits of beach glass sharp

with sparkle. Or blot the mess

in coffee grounds rich as earth half

fallow in the winter. And here,

my canvas sings in colors high

and bright; a soprano hidden

in the paint.

Dependency

Icy sunlight veins palm trees silvery

pink – sunrise. I am

huddled tight in wakefulness, a hand

pressed to the side of a snoring husband

another tucked under the blankets. He is

sibilant, a deep absence warming our bed, for now

a boundless lump of Not Quite Yet, but soon

a tie, a cheap pair of shoes, a hand for children

with empty arms, hope, and scars to bite

or cling to.

There, in the missing pieces between hope

and despair, between rest and action,

there is where the potential that will fill

tomorrow waits –

A curled hand,

a balled fist,

a teddy bear nestled beside a garbage bag.

Found on a Bathroom Stall

I don’t care, she wrote

I assume she, but it could have been anyone. I don’t care,

she wrote, scratched into the efficient,

black metal, worn with fingerprints

smudged with angst, matted
in heartbreak.

I don’t care – I didn’t do it. I could

see her fingers curled tight around

a hair clip, a nail file,

her rage and unconcern visibly etched

on the stall, in her grimace. Thin line

of lips pressed against the words spat

in math class behind the full flicker

of another video tutorial. I

don’t care – I didn’t do it and UR a

bitch ass liar.

Her eyes fill with water again, red

burns her face and neck and ears. She

drops her hand, he wasn’t supposed to

share those pictures with anyone,

swore he hadn’t. But she didn’t care.

Brave

So, it was yesterday

you were an arms-wide smile toddling toward

bright red and blue blocks, bunches

of shiny grapes, a brand-new kitten.

Then you were smaller, a nod of knowing, irritated

shrug, faded wonder in a cap

and gown.

Brave, chin angled toward the Next,

air coming in quiet gulps. I will not

always be there to catch your tears

like silvered midnight prayers.

Awakening Dawn

The morning is hard. Possibility sparkles

in thin blades that lance dreams with medical

precision. It is time to grasp the tools of your trade

and set the world on fire. Gently, so as not

to wake those giants above you who hold your keys

as a mother dangles toys just out of reach for her

child to encourage grasping. You do not want that, not

today.

Today you want to quietly explore, ramble the curves

and caves long abandoned by dragons and trolls.

They cannot return, but their pungent stink lingers,

an invitation to danger; toothless, allurring. It would

be enough, to visit and revisit, to discover these broken

baubles made of dreams. You could cradle them, inhale,

and fly.

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