Unwriting

I cannot write or see beneath these tears,

there’s always more to say and more to feel

I fear that it will take too many years.

I must press on, although it feels surreal.

Some days the words don't come, unsettle me

or come but brim-filled, sin-filled leaking all

untruth, cannot untangle and set free.

Long verses all begin to sound so small.

Some sidewalks slip, they drip with grey-brown rain

there's too much downpour, even in the sun,

mud seems to cloud the colors, the terrain.

I wonder where it ends, I’ve not begun

to sink my pen in ink, that paints for me

soft illustrated words that sing and flee.

Clementine Time

I can't help myself, 

I think of you whenever

I use my thumb to break 

a clementine's stubborn skin. 

Once my nail passes through the stumbly surface,

it softens, unravels between my fingers,

with some coaching, coaxing, slight encroaching. 

***

When we lounge around

our L-shaped, cherry colored couch

I can't just peel one for myself:

my one becomes two,

I always give the first to you. 

***

Six months in

we spent a weekend by the beach.

You passed me a clementine, 

and handed me those eyes.

My aunt oversaw and looked around

to twenty years of love behind her.

She predicted a demise and she instructed:

“Don't do that! 
You have train him early!”

Train him? Maim him? Shame him?

For love's sake, why not help?

Still, I wonder 

...without my thumb... 

could he survive?

***

Am I my mom? Ten years and three kids later

will I laugh and say "I have four, if you count 

my husband, which you should"?

Looking over my shoulder, will I see

twenty-year-old-me and make her take my blame?

"I never should have peeled that second clementine: 

the fault is mine."

The children. What about the children?

What will you do when little Moishy 

asks you to peel his clementine? 

Will you say "Go ask Mommy" every time?

We won't be my parents. 

I need to know you know

how to do it on your own. 

I'm not your mother, maid or martyr. 

***

I want to gift you, kiss you with this peeled clementine,

but sour-sweet as the juice that dribbles, stains my skin,

when my thumbnail probes too deep,

new ideas swirl and creep:

I'll to do this for you, but what'll you do for me?

***

A joke. This is marriage? 

Disparaging remarks that mar our bond?

D-I-Y and just leave me alone?

I thought we got together to avoid 

the need to face this void all on our own.  

The Truth

It is a truth universally acknowledged that 
that which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet.
[We do] not know. But sense it to be true.
[It is] a lie which makes us realize the truth.

But I've never been able to believe it. 
I don't
 believe a rose would be as nice 
if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.
This be madness, yet
much madness is divinest sense. 

Note: The lines of this poem are taken from other texts. Click the lin to see its source.

Asking For It

Asking For It 

Here is my finger,

you know the middle one.

The nail is 

freshly painted,

a lovely lilac hue.

Just for you.

Here it is, 

at the end of my outstretched arm. 

I present it to you

from across the tree-lined street. 

You asked for it, you

begged for it, I knew

you wanted it.

I wrapped it special,

just for you, 

in that dance my friend made up

for some guy she knew:

Wiggled it

waggled it

waved it around.

Just the way 

I know you like it.

I wasn't sure what to get

for someone like you,

someone I barely knew.

But oh,

you let me know

what I should do: 

"HEY BABY!" you hollered

from the other side of the road. 

Just like that,

I didn't have to guess.

Then, just in case

I couldn't take

the hint: 

You whistled.

Loud, clear,

all I had to hear. 

So here, here’s 

a finger

my finger 

the finger

just the thing for you.

Too Soon Moon

It is winter
a moon in the afternoon
a dime of gray
candy floss across the sky.

It brings to mind
the day's impending demise.
And though the day isn't done
at the stroke of five
the moonlit say otherwise.

All feels at an end
the sun won't rise
resume its shine
in the A.M.

When I was small I hated
being put to bed before
the sun's curtain fall
when light trickled in
mocked my lights out
blanket to chin.

I loved the winter's soon-rising moon,
how it aligned
with bedtime. It diminished
fear that I was missing
a downstairs din
the day was done.

Now, a moon in the afternoon
is chased by stars, the dark.
I'm not afraid of the dark
              but
it comes too soon.