Saturday

He’s downstairs toasting waffles for the kiddos.

She straightens the sheets, gathers his boxers

and her lavender lace to toss in the basket.

Last night he folded her into his chest,

his back against the polished headboard.

A new coupling with its aggressive energy

has nothing on the steady caress of marriage.

Victorian Violet Press, March 2010




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I Love You, Catherine, but I Don't Like You

I Love You, Catherine, but I Don’t Like You

Mother,

your words sounded fair at the time—

but they hung like ghosts in the air,

like Dad’s work shirts filed headless

on the basement line.

I’d watch for larks out the window at lunch

after buttoning all those shoulders onto hangers

in the breezeless dark.

Blocks of garages lined the back alley,

as the winter sky at noon

froze into stone like the face of the moon.

Icy hands through vents

forced me into sweaters,

tucked me down into empty naps.

Mother,

were you happy at home, homeschooling me 

as you drowned in depression’s relentless sea?

And when I’d curl, five o’clock-groggy

in the vinyl recliner, you’d vacuum,

the house aroused to talk show applause.

Still the silence of afternoon

wrapped its fists at your throat,

like rope waiting in the coat closet

to tie off your suffering,

your hope only in Heaven—

but without you, Mom,

the engine of home would grind still. 

Eyes lost in the driveway for Daddy to come,

the dust glowing gold in the afternoon sun.



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Incognizant Slithering

Incognizant Slithering

Genesis says the serpent first appeared
in the Garden of Eden

with hips, knees, and feet.

But then God cursed it to belly-crawl,

stripping off its limbs as punishment

for Satan possessing it,

crawling into its body to trick humanity,

locking snake eyes ultimately

with God in the garden standoff. 

           

It wasn’t the animal’s fault. 

Lucifer’s handoff of the body

back to its owner

came with a curse from their Creator

who said to the serpent:        

            You will be hated now

            hidden in the grasses

            your slick slice through the dust

            will disgust the human masses. 

           

            Twisting around your brother now,

            food your motivation.

            And you will remind my humans how

            Satan whispers, still, temptations,

            to lure them into lust

            and lay them in the grave—

            because sin is sexy.

            So your tail will flagellate like sperm

            the female body craves.

Thus, God punished Satan’s first victim—                           
this hijacked animal,

the devil’s vessel—
possessed for an evil project.

But how fair of God to settle the score

by forcing the innocent serpent

to belly crawl forevermore?

I know that God is just. 

I just don’t understand His ways.

Genesis says that although sin cursed the Earth,

God would send His Son to save.

But if I were a squirmy reptile

expelled thin and limbless through my mother’s bowels,

would I resent this dragging my

underside through the dust?

If I were a scaly culebra

winding my way through the world,

would I be pissed I was wrongly punished? 

No.  Because God grants creation adaptation.

If I were the snake,

I too would be granted

rows of scales like fingernails

to unshock my journey over the gravel,

I too would be given

the gift of skin-shedding—

the ability to undress down to fresh keratin,

leaving a delicate sock hanging

over the bark of tree limbs.

If that were me,

I would belly-crawl contentedly, 

I would slither and crawl as my lot in life,

because not questioning why I slither—

but simply slithering

would be the highest purpose of my existence.