Red Dawn

You both woke wicked with your faces red
screaming brick red deep
clown circles on yours;
yours, with dark malignant streaks
by your ears.

What IS this i wonder softly
in fear of awakening the beast they've swallowed
rubbing gently with one thumb
both cheeks.

No grease no softening
what IS this i wonder in silence
as you stare wide at my wonderment
silent in your aspirations
and deep red reflections

both sets of eyes grow large as mine narrow
makeup?
lip gloss! you declare, delighted at this first guess

no lip gloss, children, too red, too red
lipstick! i cry and you cringe
and frown
it's black, you say, it's black and red and you pull out
the bleak empty tube of Rouge Romance
and grin
since it's all on your faces and bellies and arms
tribal twin markings like twins, you are twins

giggling and aghast at the knowledge that
art can be smeared and altered
with cold cream
interpreted as sacred ritual
or sacrifice
or mere inconvience, depending
upon the viewer and the hour
of the viewing.

Stone

This doubt I would heft as a stone
from the other side of heaven
I waffle in my aim
and again weigh,
glimmer at the mooring
of faith
with narrow gaze sidelong
and sit
lone
upon a hill of beans.

A rock rough with the
intimate carvings
of an alien failure

testing the weight
a flicker, a breath
my wrist sore with indecision
palm rusting into iron flakes
as again i weigh

the space between us.

Portrait

What is his portrait of me? Who is the person he tells tales about, when he is speaking with his lonely friends, his understanding family? Who am I, in his eyes? What textured brushstrokes paint me purple? Or am I orange, with blue streaks?

I feel somehow flat, thinking of him, and how he thinks of me.

Cerberus

I lost a staring contest
with a black dog,
a Cerberus head
taking his ease out the window
of a two door sedan
eyeing me with great contempt
and no little humor
as we pause at a light
for his mistress to don
her mascara.

He rides forward
craning back to keep
me in his sights.
I, loyal subject
of the laws of traffic,
avert my gaze
in the safety of motion.

He seeks me still
in the cold gray noon
panting fire out the window
in polite drops,
waiting for another
change of light
or makeup.

Eavesdrop

She's not listening to you
she's just waiting her turn to speak
she thinks her life far more
extraordinary than yours.
She even ordered
a tea latte,
miles better
than your predictable
frothed coffee.

I listen sideways
hoping for the polite
invitation:
"Will you come over
for a threesome
with my husband?"


Her baby is smarter than yours
her husband more educated than yours
her stove hotter than yours
her laundry pile bigger than yours
her in-laws more tiresome than yours
she will be one step ahead of you always;
you might as well get your fuzzy handcuffs
and get going.

“Sketches of Desk Life, Afternoon”

    The raven perches on my desk, peeking out at me over the tip of my laptop. His
eye is bright and curious in its resin socket. He does not judge me, nor does he mock my
efforts. He looks to see what I’m doing, reading the intensity on my face. He doesn’t
mind that I stare past him out the window; he knows that his outline is present, a sun
spot in negative. The raven is dramatic, bare black against the bright shroud of
muslin curtain. His shoulders are eager, his beak sharp, and his glare unwavering. I used
to love Halloween.

    There is a glass bowl on my desk. It is small, small enough for a tea light to fully
illuminate its etched designs, tossing measured shadows onto the pensive curtain behind
it; shadows that net the urgent pile of papers on my desk. The bowl is Virgin Mary Blue,
a shade so pure in any light that I am humbled to sit before it. I should kneel. It holds a
computer cable, and a penny.

    Half of a purple goblet lingers behind the screen of my computer. I found it at an
antique store. It looked more despondent than its elegant cousins. Empty, dark and
broody; elegant and misunderstood, relegated to the wall at the dance. I took it
home to place it here, where the light can change its moods and unlimber its hues.
Purple, blue, the colors of an oil spill on pavement, slick, noncommittal, and bruised.
It turns giddy in the noon light. It is solemn when it rains. This cup will not
pass before me, no matter how fervent my prayers. Three blue marbles and a key are in
its keeping.

    The gargoyle protects the blue bowl. He is perpetually surprised to discover
himself made of resin. No one has scraped the earth bare for his making. No one has
carved him with vengeful hands. He is plastic, poured into a mold, and he has two
thousand twins. He threatens to hurl his weight at me in the attitude of his half-furled
wings. He does this every day at dawn, whether his backdrop is rain or snow, heaven or
hell. He bides his time, consorting with the blue bowl, disdaining the raven’s
wisdom, ignoring the royal goblet. He should be holding down some of my unruly
papers, but I don’t have the heart to assign him such a menial task. He growls incessantly.


    So many of the people I have loved and hated and used and miss are recorded like
tracks set in limestone a million years ago, bristling out of an address holder I took from
my old job. I can recount a shaft of experience with each name, with each crossed out
number and replacement number and sticky-note appendage. I measure my life not in
coffee spoons, but in the degree of the fading of the ink on these cards. Once placed, a
person is never stricken from this record. The address holder sits on the back of my desk
in front of the window, collecting business cards and dust, its memories sharp teeth,
unfiled. It only holds my past.