Monday, July 25, 2011


she has a question
and a smooth arm
a kaleidoscope of faces
she is afraid to ask
brushstrokes make a racetrack
nose to brow
a deadman's curve

she has a black dress
and breasts
sometimes they disappear
leave only the brain cave
the mask
the strawberry mouth pout

the left eye
central sapphire gleam
is the point
of focus
the focus point
makes the question

Sunday, July 10, 2011


If my door is shut, this means 'don't come in.'
I'd write to you, but who wants to read
the maudlin ramblings of a depressed middle-aged woman.
A publisher once scolded me for my punctuation.
I thought it was the least important thing
anyone had ever said to me. He said I should
choose a better name to be published under.
I resolve never to send him anything again.
Unfortunately he neither knows nor cares about this.
Don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry chants a litany inside my head
beneath thoughts of lunch, grammar, and lesson plans -
beneath anxiety about how anxious I am.
The signs of the times are all around us now, every day, every day.
Does anyone else notice this, or is it just me?
There will be earthquakes and famine, wars and reports of wars ...
maybe I will lose my house ... maybe my life ...
maybe my place will be taken by strangers I invited in out of pity,
before I realised they were raptors
their voices pipe like greedy birds
soon my name will change and I think I could move away
and no one would ever find me again ...
just disintegrate