Wednesday, December 3, 2014



I love to love the life of the mind
as if it could salvage rather than harm-

but know I’m better off saying the rosary
until I fall asleep.

I’m slapped adolescent and pink
as lightning knocks with mounting
insistence outside the house

the Irishman says
spit in my mouth
and I do.

(When you are godlessly the slut
of your own anecdote, well then-
a mighty freedom!)

And a mighty freedom may descend
on you.

He huffs his hands, orders me around
as if I were simple, covering my face with
latticed fingers says darling did I hurt you darling


I was hurt so long ago
I still tasted of marzipan then.

I laced up
the shoe of history and
it fit.

Marzipan is in the shops now, for impending
celebrations, lightning knocks, and winter
wipes its feet on the mat. I trade
my caustic tongue for marzipan.

Leaves sway and come to rest
on the morning’s euphoric dogs
out for their morning walks, they are leashed
but tied to nothing,

whereas the mind,
whereas the rosary,
whereas marzipan

whereas lightning and
the house, and yes
the marzipan

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