doubts forever

what if

I gained fifty pounds?
I say.

he said,
that's ok, too.

and if


I sprout hairs on my chin,
liver spots on my knuckles
and
cankles where there once was
smooth
long
legs?

and what if

I lost my hair,
all of it.
and my now
luscious
tits
flattened like
pancakes
and dangled at my
belly?

would you then?

he says,
yes.
Yes,
even when
your knees crack
and your back aches.
and when you've got no teeth
and your eyes can't see.
even when
you pee when you laugh
and need extra ginko.
when your voice is stiff
and your skin is thin.

even then,
he says,
still.

but what if?

fruits of labor

I bathed.
my skin was lotioned
hot and open
and there was you
who
wanted.
opening me
like a ripe,
plump
papaya.
an offering
from all of me
a gift of gardening.

and you feasted
in the blackness
unafraid of the dark

and we were both full.

conversation

things
and stuff.
like,
whatever.

duh.

totally!
ohmygod,
for sure!

sooo...

right?
(I know!)
for reals
and
sweet.

awesome.
or something.

and I won't have you mocking what I can become

you didn't look at me
before there was red lipstick.
I slink into my crimson costume
and I've got you.
feasting
on your would-be dinner.
I've made you a
sinner; impure.
how,
all of a sudden,
can you see my
allure
?
and
I sense your
hankering.
your heart hammers
a beat
increased
as my heels
snap past you
hard
as concrete.
eyes swing
obscenely.
wanting,
absconding
with me
your mind's possession,
you dream an obsession.

but you can put it away,
child's play.
because this isn't for you.
I have answered the question
you did not ask,
and we will not
fuck.
you will never
suck
on these,
my blessed rubies.

all afternoon

we swallowed six shots
and fucked
licked and sucked
booze and you.
I watched as you blew
hot rum breath
breathed hot down bodies
sweat
and sex.
limbs amesh and
screaming flesh.
grasping hands like
spiders danced
groped
grabbed like rope.
crush my tits
into your mouth
devour them down
then move south:
crowd into my cunt
stiff grunt.
your cock and rocks
slap a beat symphonic
we wriggle and writhe
zig zag through the sack
lips pressed to neck
as
nails dig through back.
hump and pump
grab
my ass
fastened in hands.
smash and clatter
clasp
collapse
and laugh.

good fuck.

fuel

I balloon
hot
like baked dirt
as rage licks
my insides.

I will combust,
a pepper flame,
and gorge
on everything
whole

and bask
in the now
crumbling,
ashy trail
of pieces
that once were.

Pardon my mess.

love poem

I love you.
Seriously.

Your kinked black back hair
sends me on a magical journey.

And when you remove your shirt
to expose those soggy pecs
and use the corners of our dry wall
to scratch your back,
I grow weak at the knees.

You're still sexy,
even after all these years.
My heart beats quick
at night
in the dark
when you remove your
saggy white hanes
and hang them over the fan.
I can hardly contain myself.

I even love the hair sprouting
from your
badass
closed up
once-pierced ear.

Man of my dreams.

bored in february

Thank you, valentine,
for the crimson roses
and the velvet box
of chocolate.
And that teddy bear
holding the stuffed pink heart
with lace
that said,
I love you.

they were fine.

Sure
I love you,
too.

apology

I am sorry for those
disparaging remarks

about everything.

you are not fat
or ugly.
your thighs are perfect.
you have a lovely smile.

I am sorry.
I should be.
I should mean it.

I'm sorry I feel this way,
really.
God is so generous
and here I am

just spitting
on everything.

I'm so sorry.

roadkill

I know when it is finally spring
or fall
when animals
by the dozen
lie dead in the road.

I witness a
naive forage into our world
gone terribly wrong
as a poor raccoon
or rabbit
has succumbed
to the hot rubber
and exhaust
of rush hour.

do we notice
as two tons of luxury steel
demolishes life
into a hot stew
that drags for miles
?

it will be spring soon
and a part of me has already died.

socially retarded

"do you have a web?"

I have introduced myself,
again.

"Charlotte? Well, you don't
look
like a spider!"

haha.
how clever of you.

this is why I stay
at home.

first aid

pain,
my mom always said,
is the body's way
of telling me
that something's wrong.

but
I can tell her to put the icepack
back
in the fridge.

she can't see
my dull ache
that I keep for myself
to hum inside me like
kryptonite.
waiting.

I have a wrecking ball
close to my chest
where I can listen to the sound
of my bones
crumbling inside me
while my heart seeps
through the cracks
of a shallow grave,
defeated.

something is wrong,
my body is telling me,
but I can't mend it.
I listen to the low hum
of waiting.

a concession

you bugs.
you offensive, detestable things!

you repulsive
crop of aliens
that lurk in the
dark corners of
my cozy home.

your greasy black
shell slithers
atop numerous
spindly legs...
that I would like to rip off.

your eyes, worse yet,
are there two, six, or four,
that gleam at me,
plotting?

you vinyly crunchy
sado-masochism bondagey things.
goo.
yeah, I'm talking to you.

I watch you rub those legarms
together
in anticipation of our show down.
but we both know
that you will win.

you will sneakily slink
towards me on those
thorny legs, calculating.
and I will jerk backwards and jump
atop the nearest chair
until you take your
wriggling antenna
and skedaddle.

and yet, you...
you bugs...
are another
of God's diverse
(I still say ugly)
creatures.

I'll watch your
twitchy conspiring
from across the room

but I still can't bring myself to squash you.

generations of use

grandma's hands
have skin that is
tissue thin.
soft, like wax.
her veins are an oxidized green,
a busy road map of her life.
her nails are yellowed with age,
like an old news paper,
yet fortified
like strong will.
her palms are sewn with
deep-set riverbeds of good fortune,
and her fingertips swirl
gracefully,
yet whimsically;
a testament to her subtle humor.

She clasps my hand in hers
where I can admire
the time and beauty of her lived-in
hands.

The hands that mothered four children
that delicately formed matzo balls for her
hot soup.
That sewed my baby blanket as it fell apart,
and mastered massage.
The hands that folded quietly every morning
in somber meditation at sunrise.

These hands where mine were clasped
were well-loved.
We didn't earn them, but they were for us.

didn't get your text

lol
is for

la la la laugh out loud
when you're not around.
ha ha ha how funny,
clever, and witty!

lol
is for

la la la lost the energy to call you.
and fell asleep. oops.
ha ha ha have nothing more to say,
lol in the conversation.

lol
is for

la la la last time we spoke?
sorry, I've been busy.
ha ha ha heard your voicemail
did you need to talk?

lol
is for

la la la later we'll catch up
if I have the time

ha ha ha had something good
but dropped the call

who's lol-ing now?

home

i love this
crook
in your arm,
just so.

this spot
where i can rest my cheek
between your chest
and shoulder.

it is warm
and right
and when lie together,
jigsaw-perfect,
entwined as
a jungle of limbs,
i don't wish.

the world is far gone
and i sink
into this niche
not asking for it back.

encounters with strangers

as I am walking,
just walking,
a white jeep backs
quickly into my path.

dude! learn how to drive,
I scold the driver,
with whom I am now face
to face
save for the
dense glass window
between us.

a second flashes in his
iced eyes,
which meet mine.

he is young,
sixteenish maybe,
and stunned into silence.

the boy understands me
and I walk on to finish my day,
but he stays with me.

some nerve

today my father cradled me in his arms
for the first time
in eight years
and said,
I love you.

I love you,
and cried
into my shoulder.

tell me,
father,
where was your shoulder
when I needed to cry?

you left me
your baby girl
your daughter
for the cold plastic
and rubber
of your favorite remote control.

did you think of me
while you were plastered
to the couch,
drooling
on what we could have shared?

no.
you turned the volume up
or changed the channel.
you flopped over,
and finished your slumber.
while I screamed your name
for eight years.

this feels
to me
a bit like remote control.