We're in the sun and I'm moving from your mouth
to your jeans, we're watching the stars and we're moving
We're going down the green boulevard and we're cruising
you speak Romanian, I speak you, we're going to far
and moving to the beat as one and the wind blows the hair
in my face and I got news for you, I can see you just clearly
as I could before, carefully, barely hanging on and catching movies

I can't keep away from your kiss, back and forth want to feel
the rest of you and all of you can't wait to catch you all alone
we're in the sun and I'm moving from your mouth
to the hole in your heart, tell me how you feel and who you are
you speak barely, your rhythmic breaths tell me all I need to know
waste the day and spend all the time in your pockets, all alone
floating around your head and hanging midair in your palms like
a red balloon

You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”

You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.

Raised with violence and harsh spoken words
She embraced fairytales, roses, and romance
Always seeking the different and absurd
It’s better than performing a cruel dance

Fantasy led her down the path of pain
Where self-hate and ignorance reigned supreme
Unable to cope, she felt quite insane
But that’s what comes from living in a dream

Tired of the dark, she sought a new path
Self-reflection led her to face her fears
And slowly her inner pain and deep wrath
Left, leaving room for hope’s light to appear

Still, she embraces roses and romance
It’s better than performing a cruel dance

Kelly Rose
© February 7, 2017

boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy in love
with you,

if i tremble like a
a february leaf,
gold and brown
on the black branched
beech hedge,
where the snow's
fragile kiss melts
the night into
whispers,

and the wind,
wild with its
northern chill,
flutters those
leaves, blanched
like our love-starved
lips of
colour,

beneath a sky
of midnight's sea,

then i would melt,
like this sky
of midnight's sea,

crazy in love,
with my boy
of grey clouds,

who sweeps the
crying sea, with
strange whispering,

who kisses me so
beautifully in his arms

that i sigh and cry and die
for his love,

boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy for
your love,

like a star
glistening in the deepening
night where the
nightingale sings
and the grey clouds
drift forever in their
stream-like dream.