That dog bit me.
Out of nowhere he came flying
like the proverbial bat out of hell
only bigger, with big teeth
a big bite
not like those feasting mosquitoes
on our sand dunes bike ride
not like the needle bite from
the tetanus shot
when you rushed me to ER.
So where were you this time?
When the dog bit me.
I’d never met a ghost
or a celebrity
so was surprised on the treadmill
when Oscar Wilde whispered
directly in my ear,
the heart was meant to be broken.
Home again,
caretaker roles reversed
your heart beats strong
mine now slow,
blown out from stress
like a Japanese octopus bag.
Takotsubo,
Broken Heart Syndrome.
Not the stuff of playwrights.
I learned again that day
the importance of being earnest.
Talking softly with, not at,
we climbed five stairs
inch by inch,
this time
your steps
matched to mine.
Tree trunk cadaver
like old man’s vericose veins
but still standing straight.
Two hundred fifty square feet of living space.
One glass wall with city views no one sees.
Jagged zig zags roll on monitors
lightning bleeps across the zags.
Your hands still, bloated fingers slightly curved.
My head hears a migraine beat,
while eyeballs stare so long,
they feel outside my face.
This whirring place makes my skin crawl raw.
Your mouth should be pressed on mine.
Like last night. Or speaking simple words
like this, when, or eggs this morning?
Any words from your mouth,
not taped shut
locked inside an intubation tube.
If we can see a pumping heart,
chormosome X and chromosone Y
striations on a bullet and the human spine,
why is the rearing head of prejudice
still veiled within our midst
Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.
Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.
Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.
The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.
Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.
Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.
china bisque faced doll
my aunt’s when she was young
a twin, that’s two, but not really
the second was a boy
christmas tree with big lights
not twinkling like miniature strobes
not like stars on top of Cadillac Mountain
where you waved blueberry stained fingers
mine were smudged from ink
postcards and letters sent back home
left out the sad parts
the stained and smudged parts
bisque fragile life
still beautiful
without the sparkle
Photo: my aunt’s beautiful bride doll. China bisque face with kid leather body.
We waited
consumed with work
climbing the ladder
no time for escapades.
Now, in our winter years
past summer’s torrid heat
we meet on cool chilly nights
sailing into our dreams.
Your gentleness touches me
beneath a black sky lit by stars
until we blossom
in this off-season romance.
Written in response to the DailyPost Photo Challenge to interpret “off season”.
Photo is from Provincetown, Cape Cod. Muse to many a poet and artist.
Spring Harvest
We searched that day
for morels and fiddleheads
no words, no sounds, except the wind.
The rock laden stream followed us
deeper and deeper into wooded fields,
side by side seekers.
Heads bowed, eyes on nature’s floor
suddenly spied the curling greens
and soft brown spongy shapes.
We knelt as one, upon soft damp earth
hands outstretched to pluck the harvest
foretaste of the meal to come,
wild succulent edibles of spring.
Peach juice dripped
indolent rivulets down her wrist,
as she felt the soft blushing
fuzzy peel on her tongue
and tasted its cool sweetness.
lillian the home poet 
