A Mother’s Day

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A Mother’s Day

Honesty politely asks I remind you
How often we fought over absolutely nothing.
How I held the needle that brought you pain,
But also made you laugh in the face of the Reaper
Who sat politely by the bedside, waiting.
Love was the undercurrent under our arguments.
We did not live in flowers, we did not bring hearts to each other.
We clashed as Amazons, and snarled like lions.
And when you left, I could not bear the joy of others.
Their sentiments made me wretch.
Their sugar hurt my molars.
Because they denied the truth of love,
Which is it survives and thrives in the blasted furrows
And binds the sharp edges of broken hearts.
Yet in the passing of time, I can take their flowers and hearts
And recognize our truth within them.
How we fought.
How we loved despite it.
Happy Mother’s Day.

From the Mouths of Prudes (4.4)

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From the Mouths of Prudes

Erotic language is difficult in the mouths of the untried.
We need to sound out even the gentlest of demands
In front of tea kettles slowly coming to a boil.
I want you to put my fingers in your mouth
Mumbling to ourselves over needlepoint stitches
Forcing words through propriety’s vocal sieves
We must rehearse these unfamiliar lines.
Tongue. Lick. Brea-sts.
No good to try them in bed, in the safety of night
We have to push out these tricky words in the day
So that, when required, we can casually say
I want you naked and…writing? Writhing!
As though such thoughts required no prerequisite silencing
Of the dowdy, scolding church women
And we simply touched some inner molten core
Inherent to all lusty women.

A Single Tear

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*Ahead is some seriously melodramatic, 2am poetry nonsense. It’s heartfelt, but it’s almost regressive, like I rediscovered my inner teenager.*

A Single Tear

I shed my tear,
Permitting a solitary tear to leave the outside corner of my eye.

This one tear I will shed
For the kisses that are now no more than skipping stones grazing the surface of a pond.
For your back, turned out and away.
Never was an issue, as I sleep the same way,
Until now, as you stopped turning back to me.

For your instant, measured breath.
For you gentle, determined deflection.

One tear rolls down my cheek
As I lie, wide awake and alert
Wondering what you intend to do with twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep,
Wondering how my “foxiness” dissipated so fast,
Replaced by bland, unchanging pleasantries
Where I am another “baby,” or nothing named at all,
Another memento of the Midwest, already packed away in cargo for deployment.

One tear, but I cannot spare another.
They wait in reserve, as I retain hope for the new day.
And I cannot waste too much of my precious sorrow
On a thankless, hollow bed.