shells

dirty little redhead boy
(devil spawn, satan's child)
playing in the sand
(mutters curses at me for a while)

we're fine here,
underneath the ping-pong tables
and the blond waiters.

I'm dirty, too, but he's smiling.
Until we get home, and the older one
(he's supposed to be better)
starts shouting, losing his temper,
and I bike home, still dirty,
with the crushed beauty of the shells in my pocket.

everything that changes in a year

the sunshine filled my heart to bursting,
i skipped and sang and tried my hand at transposing,
couldn't edit out my mental voice but walked fast,
not paranoid but cautious,
and i'm glad it was mine before i was yours.

but i miss being in love.

something from graduation era (lost and found)

the thunder exploded my eyes to open
and the glass on the floor, broken
needled its way into my heels, dragging
feels like the right thing to do, sagging
under a heavy load of what-won't-work.
even if i only wanted a skirt.

witchcraft queen

bewitch me, whisper
sweet nothings in my ear,
wide innocent eyes.

tempt me, offer more
with your hands than i can
with my years, i've packed a cougar
and a change of clothes,
nothing more or less.
a little desire
for some fire and some rest.

(Miss Boleyn, i've got so little to lose
i'm not bothering to choose,
but i think i don't regret it.)

insomnia

it creeps back in when you least expect it,
edging around the screen door,
flitting up the stairs, and i'm
just too damn tired to fight it,
my mind still pounding like a battering ram.
"Kill the beast!" legs twitch,
arms shift, and the downpour won't flood the streets
tomorrow, i won't take the heat,
but God willing, i just might get some sleep.

crush

guns erupt with a thwop and a thunk
and a tiny explosion of starch on the green
while boisterous blond memories tap dance
and fraternize across this last week and
this god-awful pain up the side of my skull

easy to say that you love me, kid,
easier still to believe i'd love you back
but he'd never fold an iris into my curls
and you should hold out for some other girl
somebody who isn't running to end up in the gutter.

retrograde

my hands are weathered,
more agile and less learned
but the soap is the same.
a rough antiseptic wreaking havoc on my
unbitten cuticles and lined palms

and she tried to curry favor with jamaica
came out jaundiced, salted, cruel
but lilac proud

i am the cherry taste on your lips
and the years you can't forget

i am your mistake; you are my restraint.
regret me if you choose,
but i will practice you