A bad day when her hair
Blew in the wind and he
Caught
Her, she too naive to see
His biting teeth, hard angles,
Sharp elbows and knees
Why didn't she run to the safety
Of soft bosoms and the swell of a hip
Like an ocean wave.

Jokes about pretty
Faces, hips, sensual thighs
The truth? - Beautiful

Nothing quite so exquisitely painful
As watching the one you
(Maybe)
Love gaze at a man far better than
Any woman you could hope to be.
Your heart wrenched with
Possibilities scattered to the spring wind
Like a thousand seeds of hope-sorrow.
He's better than you. She's better than you,
How could you ever hope to lure her from
A better man than any woman you could
Ever hope to be.
Golden-honey curls that will never
Wrap around my fingers are spread over
Notebooks full of love poems
To a man far better than
Any woman I could hope to be.

Your soft white-tan hands never brush mine,
Only connected by our two spoons in a pint
Of ice cream (which is good:
In my broken state I could kiss you). Drown my confusing pain
In milky, sugar coldness,
Hazel eyes, blue eyes not meeting much per
My choice.
My memory blushes at his comments,
I can't think of you here as the
Same you who wore the denim shorts
We marveled at- they were very nice shorts
(He said you had a nice ***)-
But I was more intrigued by his sideways glance,
Brown eyes flickering slyly over not your ****, hips,
I felt undressed.
Like he was wondering whether the *** under my loose jeans
Was anywhere near those denim shorts.
Spoons dig through cookie dough chunks
In near silence,
Evening shadows lengthening across grass, sidewalk edges
More perfect and straight
Than any attraction I've ever had.

I am pansexual
There I said it

I am pansexual
I love all of the pans
Every single one of them
I don't care if they are
Shining stainless steel
Or rusty and burnt
I don't care if you use them
To cook
Sizzling bacon
Or extra firm tofu
I don't care if you put them
In the cabinet
Or leave it on the stove
I don't care if your pan
Is really
More like a ***
Or doesn't have a handle
I don't care if you
Put a lid on it
Or leave it on an slow open simmer
I don't care how big
Your pan is
Or if it's better suited for soup
I don't care if your pan is
Really just more decorative
And you decide not to use it.
I don't care how may times
You've cooked in your pan
Or if you've never cooked at all

I just want to say that
I love pans
And I am pansexual.

9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.

Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like an offering.
The unrequited love
Of years to come
Glistens in his eyes
For but a moment.

Sharp young minds
Clutching magnolias
Spinning webs of imagination
Like silk worms and spiders.
The webs, soon to be tainted
With lies and flies
And magnolias.

Bright pink magnolias
Epitome of womanhood
To brighten the rainy day
When he layed magnolias
On his mother's grave.
Only a child,
Weeping into his father's
Sullen form.
To young to understand
Death.

Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like a promise
To remember.