Beautiful

She sat at our table
placemats squared

like her stubborn
kissed chin

with a darkened mole
on her stage-right cheek

she never meant to
say so very much

’bout maternal dis-possessions

which is our shared
inheritance

but the problem is halved.

Linings

The daily rituals return
like when I took
the wooden rule

not quite up to the job

that knobbled edge to run
my fountain pen against

the overexcited Indian ink
would leave me to blot

those small stains
are inverted now
found on my sleeve

the toothpaste specks
are my page-ready mistakes
as I bend to this sink
making good this new day

to lay out
line by line
my life

Fall

Almost December
and this bit
of our northern hemisphere

is being tricked by the
man-made warmth
into putting feelers out
from within

the false Spring which catches
too keen lifeforms and me

I am over dressed for
these modern Novembers

Old scars

Again
she loosened him
like you do to a ripe scab
with a quick pick

and each time
she contributed to that flesh mark
he had upon her

that white scar
vividly lit by the sun’s admissions
never burn-protected
almost

just almost
cancer’s low cat flap
under which he crawled
to grow
again inside her


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