LETTER TO MYSELF

Dear angry one,           you blow up,

then storm out of my life

leaving my body          parts scattered,

the limbs beside a ridge.

I rush to them before the dogs tear my flesh.

Collect the parts         but they no longer fit,

yet I feel alive in fragments.

There’s always something

that needs fixing—broken shoulder blade,

but who is to mend them?

Time will heal me.        It schooled its fingers

to stitch the dismembered parts into a being

with such care      I feel I am whole

again and attractive again

to the point as if someone is ready to eat me

without discovering what I am

like underneath           my rescued body.

DIRTY PIG

The girl opens her bedroom window

to let fresh air in.

Part of me goes in to mix

with her perfumes and hair sprays.

I think my smell is swilling her brain

and she’s to wear it

from now on when she strips herself

for bed. Before my mind

wallows in the idea, the girl waves a stick,

calls me a swine for making a mess

of her yard. I grunt.

She tips a bucket over my head,

shakes off the fish guts,

egg shells and bitter grapefruit peel.

She yells at me

that I spend all day putzing around in the sty.

For a scuzz like me

you would think muck is easier to wash

than the stain on my character.

People hold their noses and move away,

TODAY I SING FOR HIM

   I hurt the man I love.

For him I want to croon.

   It’s hard to turn words

into rain and soak the clothes

   my memories put on.

Untie my bodice, then

   watch the ocean swallow

the bolus of the citrus sun.

   So many tunes are on the loose

bursting with song,

   seeking a merger with him

but it’s harder on the heart

   than it is on the throat.

I hope he is listening

   on the long drive home.