Category Archives: Art


Back at home
there are two
pencil drawings
black and white
a gift from a friend
who means
something to me
but I can’t decide
kind of frame
would be best
and I’m standing
in the aisle
whether my choices
are as black and white
as these frames
so I take my time
make a decision
to the checkout
where the cashier
is careless
and scratches
one of the corners
says to me
all you need to do
is touch that up
with some black paint
and I say
you know that dent
is never
coming out








He says he loves me
whatever that means–
could be
on his bucket list
to fall
for a girl
who could seduce him
with words–
but now
he’s in too deep
to take it back
since he knows
I’m willing to turn myself
inside out
to please him
and to prove that every
I make for him
is just the tip
of an iceberg
he alone is melting.




Photo by Ansel Adams


It’s off
and you know it
and there’s
just no way
to settle it tonight—
so you go to bed
wondering how
you could have
been so mistaken
when you put
a little black
into the white
the painting to
become a little
more exciting
with shadows
so close
to the light—
but you ruined
the tone
and the mood
and the whole entire
sky is wrong
it wasn’t supposed
to look like rain.








Your Name

I know one day
I’ll be buried
under these memories
instead of your body
draped so casually
over mine
because I’m running
out of excuses
for why I need
the entire Sunday
afternoon to do
what could be done
on any other day
in half the time—
and those lies I tell
are so flimsy
and weakened
by my love for you
that it’s just
a matter of time
before I’ll come clean
with a confession—
and your name will
be so heavy
down in my heart
I don’t know how
I’ll lift it into my voice
without breaking.






“The Lovers” by Rene Magritte, 1928

Another Sunday Afternoon

You were already hanging on
by a thread today
when you answered the phone
with as much normal in your voice
as you could muster
and you listened to your spouse
explain the need for something
and you don’t have the patience
or the desire
to pay attention anymore
to what amounts to gibberish
after the mad money
goes up in smoke every afternoon
so you hung up the phone
and packed your bag
and wished upon a star
you could be gone when he gets home
but you just sit on the bed
with the keys in your shaking hands
because you know
you have nowhere else to go.








“Repose” by John Singer Sargent, 1911



First Encounter

how the mind
finds as much
in memory
as it does
in the infinite hope
of daydreams—

as it is
to imagine
what’s to come,
what encounters
we have
to look
forward to—

it’s the
of my navel
a cup
for your pleasure
that makes me
smile and pause—

and I stop
whatever it is
that needs
to be done
so I can slip
beneath you
once again
when I close my eyes.






Duane Michals, 1969 “The Young Girl’s Dream”

Shadow of Doubt

Maybe we
should end today—
put our love to rest
before it begins
to want too much—
before it starts
to feel disappointed
by all these limits
we keep touching
when we want
to find each other
in the mess
of days—
haven’t we lived
long enough
to know happiness
will return to us
after it takes a leave
of absence?
Here in the dark
morning I know
the sun will blossom
soon and bring us
a pink promise
that thousands
of days are still ours
to live—
and this day
might be the hardest
and the longest
but somehow
we’ll survive it too.