He Made Me Promise

not to tell. He said no one would believe me. He said I
would only disgrace myself. He said that I would lose
him forever. I carry the secret from the bedroom, to
the shower. I try to scour the stain off my body, with

boiling hot water and then to the kitchen table, where it
sits in my belly like rocks from a landslide. It fills my stomach up with mucus so I can’t digest. I carry it all day at school, in my classes and among my friends. I carry it when talking to my

guidance counselor. She told me that it was ok to talk
about it. But I was afraid, afraid of what would happen,
afraid of what they’d do. What would they think about me
if I let my secret loose? I carried the shame as heavy

as the secret itself. I carried it home that evening
when I went into my bedroom and swallowed the bottle
of pills on my nightstand. When I awoke in the hospital
they looked as if they already knew. They told me

I was safe. They told me I would stay for a while, in a place
with bars on the windows that look like a cage. At least I'll
be safe away from him. Maybe someday I’ll tell the world the secret I’ve been keeping, or maybe I'll wear the stain to my grave.

He Made Me Promise

not to tell. He said no one would
believe me. He said I would only disgrace
myself. He said that I would lose
him. I carried the secret from the bedroom,

to the shower, to the
kitchen table I carried it all day
at school, in my classes and among
my friends. I carried it when talking to

my counselor. She told me that it was
ok to talk about it. But I was afraid, afraid of
what would happen, afraid of what
they’d do. What would they think about me

if I let my secret loose? I carried the shame
as heavy as the secret itself. I carried it home
that evening when I went into my bedroom
and swallowed the pills. When I awoke in the hospital

they looked as if they knew. They told me I was
safe. They told me I would stay for a while,
in a place that would help me. At least I’ll get
away from him. Maybe someday I’ll tell the
whole world the secret I’ve been keeping.

on my arm stand
like soldiers in ten rows,
like wheat fields
as the wind whips through

and blows.
He made the hair
on my head curl
like a plate of green fiddleheads,

like the colored spools  
of grandma's threads.
He made the hair
on the edge of my eyelids flutter

like butterflies in a garden,
like an actress that starred in
a musical play.
But his feet were made of clay.

despite his tremulous arm
and the fact that he was starved, downing
pretzels like pigeons pecking the ground. He

was a tree in winter that lost its leaves
and splintered. The workshop wasn’t heated
but was warm as a furnace, with

every apparatus one could use to build
a mansion on the hill. The saw had baby
teeth that cut through but was discreet. The scene

was very sweet, like the scent of pine in
a forest. It snowed sawdust. And instead of
fireworks I heard a gentle buzzing. My heart

wasn’t thumping. It was pulled by something
******* like the hose on a vac. It cleared
out all my plague. And his embrace, felt

like clamps holding me in place. One can build
a dresser in a moment. I knew we would fill
the drawers, in time of course. I left passing

the sawhorse and the stable full of wood. As I
climbed into my car my eyes welled with
tears. It had been years since I allowed myself
to feel anything. Soon it would be spring.

as an artic blast
through the dank tunnels
of yesterday. Passed over me
as a tsunami. I sank

in his large wave. Passed as bloated
gas through my intestines. He's a bean
that cramped me with indigestion. I'd the runs
for days, weeks and months. He passed

the buck as a Mack truck on
the highway. Pulverizing sweet
meat with dancing eyes, Cheshire
grin and pearly teeth. Passed

every man on
the touchdown. He passed me
in years but not tribulations. Lawyers
passed papers halting all relations.

my skin like an orange
sliced me in pieces
with a paring knife
squeezed out the juice with a syringe
cut back the hanging fringe
dropped the rind in a glass of gin
smiled that smile, his crooked grin
and swallowed
after he hollowed me -
He spit out the seeds.

where a garden shouldn't
bloom. Taking root in his bed-
room. His lips sprouting
fangs. His viper hanging in

the grass.  The man has
a heart of glass. He shook her
like a ***** collins. Rocked her
till her teeth fallen. And as

her belly swell
he told her sharply not to
tell. She watered this dandelion,
called him Brian. But as winter

cold snuck in the air
her hold on him did not fare. So,
this show like autumn leaves
blew out of town in one fell sneeze.

the air till it took off the roof
of his house. He discarded me
like a cigarette **** till I burnt him
from the inside out. He said

his pieces held together by
a string till I cut the string. And they
scattered like the autumn leaves,
like acorns falling from the trees.

He played up
his life in his work
like a painter does with colors
wet on the canvas of
their imaginations. The starry

night in swirls of blue and
gold. He danced so light they called him
twinkle toes. He danced all over me,
but tripped on himself.

during the session. He was in a
band. He wrote the lyrics to Rod Stewart’s song
“Some Guys Have All the Luck” As they walked up
the stairs to his living quarters, the kitchen on

the left. Turn right for the parlor. She sat in the striped
chair next to the fireplace. He sat at the keys; couldn’t see
her face. He had such thick hair in the back that went
this way and that. She asked him to sing Sinatra. His strong

hands placed themselves on the ivory. And as he
tapped each key she was in ecstasy. Yet he could not see
her face. And Frank Sinatra will never be the same. Because
every time she hears his songs, she’ll remember the day
he played them and sang for her.

he didn’t notice me
know my name
recognize my face
and I pretended along with him
to save both ourselves embarrassment
I felt so minuscule
grower small by the minute
sitting there
and when I stood
I felt smaller than the chair
but it didn’t stop me
from reading the poem
that I wrote
because despite the fact I was not acknowledge
among the others –
I was
Someone
and if I didn’t count myself
who would?
so, I did
and I will
the next time
and the next
until I gain
their respect

the rug
from under her feet
laid her flat
as a fitted sheet
and danced
over the body
on every beat

He Pulled
rose petals off
one by one
till the crimson bloom lay
scattered blood ashes
curled in the tray

He pulled
the stitching out
before the wound closed
then he ran as a run
in her pantyhose

He pulled
the plug
from her life-support
stole her breath
on every caress
till the last death

till my stuffing leaked
out. There was less of me
inside of my clothes than
in billowing clouds outside

exposed. Then he pulled
my silk threads with his teeth till they
broke. I looked like a scarecrow,
part of his joke. But he too

unraveled. I thought he was
rock. His shoes and socks
gravel, the size of a pea worn down
by years that he traveled. The sort

that gets wedged in-
between painted crimson
toes. A proxy, is he wearing
emperor clothes.

in a yellow daffodil.
Gave a cornflower sky
a black eye.
And I still didn't get

my fill of him.
He was a scouring pad,
a crustacean, a crawdad.
There was little meat

to him.
Lots of mouth
and swashbuckling trim.
And I fell head over

feet into his walls
and lilac sheets. Drowning in
a sea of green, a young girl's wish
to fill an old woman's dream.

to the window
and missed me
at his door.

I ran
out of energy. This life
became a chore.

He ran
over. So, he
didn't call.

I ran
head over feet -
that's how I fall.

He ran
an errand,
making me wait.

I ran
out quietly
slinking as
a skate.

He ran
his moil
on the phone.

I ran
my toil
with a grunt
and a groan.

on her like butter
on top of hot bread straight
from the oven. Like silky thread
of a web. Ran off as a thief

after holding up the city
bank. Like a guppy after he
feeds in a large fish tank. He ran
off like rainwater from the

gutters. Like April snow on the outside
shutters. He ran off like a vulture
after feeding on the carcass. Ran off right
after that smoldering car kiss.

were autumn leaves. From a snap
of cold turned golden yellow
to mud brown, twisting off
falling to the ground.

Her colors
bled out in a wink
from the wash, the crimson red
to salmon pink. From bright to
dull, the sort you didn’t cull.

Her colors
peeled like an orange rind
as she was sectioned. Men
chewed her up and spit out
the seeds.

Her colors
chipped standing
in the sun. She's brittle. Flaking
she'd whittle into dust. Flying
off in a flurry.

Her colors
cracked. Someone
took an axe and hacked
her walls.

Linda Lishes
She washed dishes.
Her dying wish is
to have her sud-soaked hands
wrapped around a studly man.

Here lies
Harriet Housewife
All she wanted out of life
is to be more than someone's wife.

Here lies
Wendy Winger
She wanted a shot as a Billboard singer.
She didn't make the charts.
They switch the channel.

Here lies
Karen Kohut
She called herself a poet.
She wrote about life in books.
But none ever look.
The publishers didn't print her.
She didn't take a hint, sir.
As they read her epitaph
all they do is laugh.

Here’s a ***

for you. It’s no longer
milking the babies. It’s
cool shaking for
savings.

Here’s an ***
for you. It’s no longer
walking the malls
on patrol. It’s twerking
and working for gold.

Here’s a belly
for you. It’s no longer
in incubation for
the next generation.

Snow white in satin sheen
silver filigree in cream
Fancy lace and puffy sleeves
Ruffles pouncing or straight lines
Off the shoulders
Sweetheart neckline
Veil
Tiara
Flowers or cap
Maybe a wide-brim hat
Pickle green - the maid’s hue
What about the shoes?
Flats or sandals
Pumps or boots
Will there be a train?
And if so, what’s the length?
A spray of roses- sweet perfume
Swept up, braided or left to hang
With or without the bangs?
Something old/something new
A blue hanky to cry into
The month is June
Anticipating
Where’s the groom?

as vanilla ice cream on apple pie
running off to the sides
in a puddle of sweet lies
on a paper plate of goodbyes

They slid off
walking on crystal ice
thrown as rolling dice
till she fell in
engulfed over her head
in the icy swim

She has her lips to sip
and her teeth to eat
a nose, and a mountain
standing between
two crimson cheeks

But she can't see
where she's going
or where she is.
She only clings to
where she's been.

is a Picasso. She paints
it with the mascara wand. Rising
at dawn to roll the tube of crimson
wax to color her lips. She dips in a brush –

not for dust. But to sweep the powered
roses on her flesh. The shadow she sees
are mint green or azure. Depends on
the day if she’ll wear less or add

more. A pencil isn't for
writing the script, She underlines
her eyes with it.

has no color. It’s duller
than a lecture full of
statistics. And she doesn’t
have the logistics to pull it

off. Her eyes troughs
of stale rainwater infested
with mosquitos. Her nose,
a stuffed burrito, sliding in

the sauce, with two holes
that blow it off into the hot
air. Her egg-shaped head
strings a patch of honey

hair. Her lips are red rubber
bands that land above her
chin. And I, haven’t seen her
smile, since she last seen him.

strands of saffron,
her eyes cool mint.
She has a Boston accent
and a hot temperament. She’ll

chase you as a puppy,
racing ‘round the house.
Slippery as a guppy.
Woman does grouse. But

fall for her you will. She’s
a thrill in the morning when you’ve
a big head from the planter’s
punch. She’s a thrill at noon –

after lunch. And in the evening
reading the paper, ******* to
go to bed she’ll be pleading with
you to go dancing under starlight

in a sky of broken red. Within a second,
you’ll do so.  Her kisses are
buttered toffee. She’ll have you up
all night like ten cups of coffee. The bags

under those eyes will be greasy as
a homeless man’s. And as you
pack the car to go –
you’ve find that she’s made plans!

are clenched in fists of rage
no one here acts their age
their lips are sewn, leather strapped
days are strung, and she is tapped

all that changes are the seasons
everyone talks but no one reasons
repeat/repeat/repeat/repeat
they don't move their **** or get off their seat

she who stands up stands alone
they've different names but all are clone
is she vain to think she'll make a difference?
the audience watches with indifference

time is a soldier marching on
steady heads and much less brawn
dressing in pen and not stiletto
is liberation from this ghetto

Her Hands

All her thoughts go to him,
all her tears, all her lust. She’s like a camel, carrying it all
in a rounded protuberance on her back. The abnormality causes her distress. Her hands are the only things she has

that are free. They get her in trouble. They take on a life
of their own. Her fingers are like roaches. They crawl in every hole. They hide inside crevices, watching and
waiting. They do things against the law.  They take things from

stores. They do things immoral. They hit and they claw. They please what’s not theirs. But they write. They write about
thoughts, about pain, and the tears that come
from that pain. They write about lust, lust for him,

and lust for life. Lust that’s drained like water
going down the sewers, carrying the ***** matter of life,
a waterfall underground that’s dark brown. Her hands are covered
in it. They’re unstoppable just as much as any roach is.

is a cluttered drawer
filled with tickets torn
in half and colored *****
that fizzle in the

bath. Stained cards and
ripped old photos, drummed
up dreams and wrinkled
bedclothes. Spilled perfume

and fire engine red nail
polish, letters that she'll not
demolish. An army knife that
carved his initials, a document

that stated it's official. It's so
stuffed she cannot close it. Today's
the day she'll recompose it line
by line, wrapping it up in poly twine.

her arms the arrows
that turn. They spin
in the direction of
the wind. She sits high
up there for all

to see. No one can
predict in which direction
she’ll go. She vacillates. It’s
a different show, one moment
to the next. Even herself

she leaves perplexed. She’s taken
by force, on a merry-go-
round. She’s vain. Anyone can
see. With a **** for a head, she’s
raised herself to be released.

ride. All the people outside are
ants. She loses ground in this
dance. Looking through a thick plated
hole at swirls of cotton candy clouds

she bumps around. ****** forward and back,
up and down, side to side, like a roller-
coaster ride. Her quarters are tight and
cramped, strapped like sardines

in boot camp. The food is bland as
the women. And that's all that she is
given. She cannot move; she cannot tweet,
for she is fastened to her seat. All the doors

are closed. The seat-belt sign imposed. She
cannot leave. But she cannot stay. The air
pushed out like Aerosol spray. Her feet swell
like balloons. Her skin is dried up like a prune.

lie. They curl up like
a sleeping cat into a smile
when she's sad. She speaks
like she's not had a broken

heart. She colors them cherry
blossom. But when she’s with me
she plays possum. Her eyes drip
in crimson watercolors, a bleeding

sky, running into the river. She's a
splinter, a sliver of the woman
she was.  Painting starry nights
blazing through a violet sealed

off maze. And when I kiss her
she’s not kissing me. Her lips are
like rubbing up against the bark
of a tree. And there's no heat.

wept all over
the mahogany table. So, he cradled
them in his hands, till the color
ran down the length of

his arm. And his hand
was a prison for the wrinkled
crimson. Men before him spread
the soft, curled petals all over

their four cornered brass
bed. And they died without
water. They died without sun.
They died dried up. They'd been

picked too young. All that is left
is the appendage riddled with
thorns. She piddled her life on men
since the day she was born.

in raindrops on tin rooftops
pitter-patter/kerplunk
Running down his windowpane
The glass is weeping;

not he. He is sleeping snug
in his four-poster mahogany bed. Not once
does she cross his head. Her silence
drives down from the sky in hail. Dents

the rails on his fence. Leaving him
a little tense. He swings a baseball bat
at them sending them flying high
into the air. Breaking them

apart. Till the pieces
ricochet off his hard veneer. The sky
fleeced in shaggy clouds. He punches
a hole in it, screaming out loud.

are white chocolate kisses
melting on crimson lips
rolling off and doing
a flip into her wine

Her teardrops
are smoky
like sitting at a bar
surrounded by cigars
doing pirouettes and
jumping cigarettes

Her teardrops
are frozen
jagged icicles
hanging off the eaves
like long sleeves
on my baby brother

Her teardrops
are milky
like ricotta cheese
in clumps
a mountain high
piled on a pizza pie

into stone that she's thrown
into a lake. They skip and bounce
like an earthquake. They're so
cold they froze into icicles

on her face. She ties them up
in a bow like a shoelace. She shoots
daggers from her eyes, like lightning
bolts from the skies that take

a man by surprise. Once they
were a river that overflowed into
the land, the city streets like a brass
band. But after years of the flood

the flow had stopped like
clotted blood. She cannot shed
no more. They're all dried up like a
corpse's pore.

is a nest
full of stinging hornets. I wear
the welts like notches in her
draw of belts. Large red bumps
from all she's lumped on me,
making my head a knotted tree.

Her tongue
Is a stiletto
born in the ghetto,
slicing right through me
like a roll of salami. As she bears
down her knife I grow smaller
with every slice.

Her tongue
is a revolver
shot out of her mouth
in rounds. I cannot absolve her
of the crime. Words are weapons
bleeding through me all the time.

are pithy, one word
dangling on the page,
dripping with sweet
intention. In sunlight we

don't engage. And she's
been with me in Paris, in cafes
and museums, though she's not
left her zip code. And I read

her memes, watercolors running
down my screen. I haven't seen
the sun on her face. But I've seen
her children growing up on my

page. And I cannot erase
years of plastered smiles
like cut out paper dolls. I pasted
on my walls. I stich all

her words together and write
'a poem. But I cannot hear
sounds of laughter or bouncing
echoes after, teetering from

her cherry lips. I trip on my
phone, sitting dark and cold
in my purse, as I nurse my lime
and *****. I'll type her another

line, to tell her all is fine. Inside
I'm breaking in shards of splintered
conversation and plastered smiles,
a bookmark of a life wrapped in pixels tight.

I ****** out of the hose
of my crimson carpet. This time
I'll part with it. All the dust bunnies
and planted soil that glittered just

like foil is now a clump
of smokeless ash heading towards
the trash. With the cookie crumbs
and lies I built a fort up to

the skies. Mangled hair and fleas
made me wince and sneeze. Broken
glass and spilled perfume curled up in a
Bissell womb. The fibers growing

limbs big as Mount Washington! I bagged
it all, cells of skin and lime, tin and
turpentine, nails and shards, a landfill from
discard. Pebbles and rocks/days of hopscotch.

chair, molding around the contours
my body. I sink into him as
the beans swim like a school
of fish sticking together. Making

an impression of my derriere
as I melt like butter into the four foot
cloud of cornflower suede. All set out
and laid like a quilt. Cozy and snug

like a warm glass of milk. And rain
can pitter patter on my window. It doesn’t
matter the darkness of the sky, when I’m
safe inside and dry. As the hands on

the clock fly my eyes grow
heavy. Nothing can keep the sleepers out,
not even a levee! The smell of Christmas
pine stands next to my glass of wine.

an inked spot
surreptitiously hung
a birthmark
copiously sprung
black smoke
filling up my lungs

I'm every song unsung
He's cut off the top
of my tongue
I grow back as stubble
till he doubles his precision
not as I envisioned
stepping on me
climbing the rungs

burning top to bottom
droplets of hot waxen beads
hanging down to his *******
he, a man of books and tweed
golden as the leaves in autumn

his light snuffed out in December
a cold, grey dark cloud
as I remember
I, a woman in the crowd
couldn't hold tight her temper

now left is a puddle cake
and it's growing thin
rutted in a waxy circle I skate
falling and splitting my skin
taut is the ice over the lake
breaking both heart and shin

with the slightest breeze
his flame blows out into the
wind. Circling and billowing in
my honey hair I cough and choke

breathing in his air. He burns
both ends every day, growing smaller
as he melts away. He doesn't break
as glass. He weeps hot wax

running down his wick, till he
looks a homeless bearded man
that's sick. Bent over he passes
gas in his holder. And smolders as

a cigarette. The **** years
of work and sweat. No light, no flame
no ivory tower, just a stump of man
with dreams that soured.

thin and salty,
packaged in colorful
wrapping. Covering
his holes with a

flavorful spread. He cannot
hold weight like a loaf
of bread. His toppings
slide off.  But he likes

to dip like a potato
chip. He crumbles and breaks
under pressure. I’d say
he needs a refresher. Dry as the

desert sky. He doesn't
rise as a soufflé.  And hard
like a pound of clay. That’s how
he greets his day.

If I could blow him
out of my nose in a sneeze. Be taken
as the leaves in a breeze. If I
could bury this sickness

of sobs and heaves. Cool the fever
with a wipe of my sleeve. Melt his memory
like Fontina cheese. Ice it down
a few degrees. This rash is tighter

than my jeans. It’s spreading like
acne in teens. Splitting my sides at
the seams. If I could unplug this noisy
machine making me wriggle in high-

pitching screams. Stop it from hanging
over me like the eaves. If only I could. But I can't!
So, it breeds.

He’s all she needs
To keep her safe
To give hope,
To this poor waif
She can’t face
her deepest fears
all alone.

He’s a dream
She won’t wake
He’s a circle
That won’t break
Never was there a beginning
Never will there be an end

Some are handsome
Some are tall
Some are young.
He’s not that at all.
Some are strong.
And some are slim.
But it’s nothing she uses
to measure him.

He’s a dream
She won’t wake
He’s a circle
That won’t break
Never was there a beginning
Never will there be an end

And I don’t say that
just because I gave birth
to him. Even his birth was
fine. I delivered him in ten

minutes time, no medication
no complications. There wasn’t
a “time-out” as a child. He smiled
and followed every rule. The teachers

loved him at school. He put himself
through college. And spent all his free hours
helping other men and woman that had
problems. I gazed up at him with

awe. And I can say with certainty
he is the best creation that I’ve
released into this bleak world. And if
I die tonight, without anything of

my own right, I die proud
to be this man’s mother. To see him
from cradle to walking across
a stage handed his degrees. And to

thank him for teaching me
all the beauty that comes from
giving of yourself. And that living
is thinking about somebody else.

an insect with beady eyes
and expandable wings
he dips as he flies
to paper he clings

she’s a fuzzy peach
soft and round
you couldn't teach
so she drowned

he ****** her pulp and sweet juice
licked her taffy soft flesh
then set her out loose
for another more fresh

now she's the pits
and down on herself
he's eaten her bits
saved them all to himself

Squash that bug
he's not a man
he moves like a slug
in a tin can

hanging on a tree
razor sharp teeth
cold as a slab of stone
dripping waterworks
hasn’t meat
just bone
can’t take the heat
his reduction a pool
of a tobacco man’s drool

that I was responsible
for his sleeping with me
that I would destroy
all his patient’s lives
he left me
with so much guilt
I’ve the nightmares/the shrills
the unanswered silences
for the dead it’s over –
but the living still
must go on if they will
but some don’t
some take it to bed
but never lay it to rest

too intense. I was a moat,
surrounding his castle walls. And he
didn't have a boat to descend my falls.

He said I was
too colorful. I was a rainbow
after his rain shower. In green, red,
blue, yellow, and purple, a blooming
garden of flowers.

He said I was
too demanding. I was a plane
that he test piloted
into a crash-landing.

He said I was
too heavy for him. I was the dreadlocks
he opted to trim.

I didn’t fit in
his neatly round circle
of friends. He said they all

talked about me behind
my back. I'm a shy girl. It's
security I lack. People closest

to you cut you in half. Words
destroy. They are
a knee on my neck –
choking me to death. People

must put you down to make
themselves look stronger. Prejudice
isn’t a color. It’s not
looking out for your brother –

I didn't fit in
his neatly round circle
of friends.

bearded and goth. I was his
flame, a butterfly dame. We kicked
up a rumpus. Both lost with no
compass.  Like a city rat

to a Cheeto I’m the sauce
in his burrito. And as flies
stuck to **** two tongues
swimming in the spit.

Like a weeb to ******
I was searching for
a Jedi. But as lambs walking
toward their slaughter this

only grew hotter, till the stench
of burning flesh took his breath. Laid
in a box like a drawer of stuffed socks
men paraded him to the overture of hymns.