Glimpses - NYC to Virginiaville

##demolition##

Our big square kitchen with

two sinks and

three doorways

spins

on my head

like a top and the

plates and glasses

fly,

while mom

sits in the den in

the fat leather recliner where

she has been curled up for

three days

crying

since dad told her in front of the psychiatrist

: I don’t love you.

and I haven’t loved you

for years.

He slithers down the back steps, going to

the barn where

his bloodline is

held captive-

stalled up with his stallion and mares and

unbroken baby foals.

The stinking rockdust and manure

attract him

more than mom’s

Estee lauder perfume.

I watch from the steps -- old enough to

wear a bra but

too young to run -- and

I feel the weight of our old house

crack to

pieces

just above my forehead, where my bangs,

sprayed and teased

will do nothing

to cushion the

crash and shock

of splintered wood and

china and

family atop my

young

screaming

body.

My Darling My View 2011

Graveyard Mud

The dead around me are rising again

and I'm stuck

in the graveyard mud.

I could try to follow but

I won't be able to keep up.

My soles are fused

deep in the thick, wet dirt below.

Maybe I should just stay here.

It's quiet,

only the dark crickets

and windblown leaves remind

me my ears are indeed alive.

Maybe like the trees nearby,

I can suck up from the muck

and go dormant for a tick,

to get ready for the next loud trick.

But wait, what's that moan?

I see another one frozen

plus more

over there -

faces up

in the air.

"Do you need help?," I inquire.

And with wide eyes but narrow brows,

she shakes her head and looks away.

She would scurry if she could

but like me, her toes are trapped

in the graveyard mud.

Without even a whisper of suction,

dead quiet is she.

Being ignored

I turn to the man in the captain hat.

He stares at the sky.

"What are you doing," ask I?

His eyes flutter but he doesn't answer.

So close, I can hear him breathe,

but with his exhale there is no word.

I turn my eyes north,

letting the treetops blur,

as the diamonds twinkle

beside the moon glowing amber.

He must be lost,

filling in the missing color

in another paint-by-number dream,

I say, stealing, in silence.

Then his mutter, "I'm plotting my course.

The stars will steer me out of here."

All stalled,

I know they can't help me

anymore than I can help them.

I'm innocent but imperfect,

not lost but derailed.

Don't come back

to get me.

I won't go,

into the forest,

on Your whim.

Or worse,

be left alone

on that deserted path,

again,

waiting

for man to return,

casually.

I'm better here

in the graveyard mud

unhelping and unhelped,

tacking

in the midnight still