No R.O.I. Friend

Disillusionment didn’t come overnight,

but crept in, like a chisel shaping stone.  

It was quiet, like you—  

who never ask about my life,  

who respond with half-formed words to my news—  

if you don’t leave my messages unread.  

Yet each time you reach out, I’m ready,  

as if I live in the pocket of your world,  

waiting to play the concerned villager  

in your “boy-who-cried-wolf” drama.

That's my own fault. I believed you—

that perhaps the sky was falling

each time you seemed to need me.

I hoped for a friendship that was mutual,  

but found myself on call—  

therapist, mentor, aunt, confidant, teacher—  

maybe a friend to you,  

but never one in return.  

Even a farm dog gets more  

than a pat once a month.  

Strangers feign interest.  

Enemies want updates.

I’m not usually like this—  

I give freely, without expectation.  

But the lack of gratitude,  

the sense that I care more than you do,  

the feeling that my time is wasted—  

years poured into a one-sided relationship—  

I give more, get less.  

Where’s the return on investment?

Is my time and energy just sunk cost?

Would you notice if I was the one

to leave you unanswered, unread?

So I cut the leash.  

I won’t be dragged around,  

won’t be weighed down anymore.  

Unlike you, I won’t say a word,  

won’t speak this hurtful truth,

won’t consult a single soul,  

won’t dwell on it.  

Instead,

I’ll fade away, a statue in the rain,  

weathered and worn,  

until I’m nothing more than  

a blurred face you can’t make out,  

so distant,  

you won’t even try

anymore.

Marmalade

These snapshots of your life

dissolve like marmalade—

sweet with bitter chunks

that linger between the teeth

till the evening fades.

I’m still picking rind

from my teeth when

the same, but different,

sticky bomb drops.

I want to finish the last bit,

but instead, I’m left wondering:

If the Bible says to wear life

like a loose garment,

why do you wear yours

like a straightjacket?

Similes like Dickinson

The maternal instinct,
sharp yet soothing—
like an airbag filled with chamomile,
deployed straight to the face.
It’s a punch, then a gentle cushion,
both forceful and tender.

Our friendship,
like the worn cutting board
I’ve not yet replaced,
though any hard surface would do.
It’s a worn-out thing,
perhaps overlooked, replaceable,
for now, it serves its purpose.

Take my annoyance,
like sharp-clashing bangles,
cutting through the air,
each step announcing discomfort,
a constant, jarring rhythm
that I can't ignore.

In the messages you send me,
like opening the mailbox,
hoping for a letter— a card—
but finding only junk and bills.
It’s muscle memory,
reflexive disappointment,
each opened envelope another letdown.

Please, wrap yourself in restraint,
like a blanket of each thought or feeling,
a gift meant only for you,
hermetically sealed tight around you.
Yes, sometimes it aches,
the need to share,
but perhaps silence is safer.

Once more, I am engaged,
like a bird trapped in a garage,
the door wide open,
both able to leave and unwilling to fly out.
The freedom is there—
Instead, the bird beats against the glass.

Slept well last night.

    A boat.       Or a barge.

   Standing.          Staring.  

      Out there.      Water. 

Where?          I don’t know yet,  

             Not        far.  

      A boy, 

           or maybe now  

                   A man—  

I once knew,         but not anymore.  

                 He is here,  

             Speaking to me.  

      I knew I was only dreaming,  

Because, for once,

       I listened 

                 to what he had to say

You don't say.

There’s a story within the story.  

You tell me the news a week later.  

Funnily, you're telling me the news  

so I'll be ready when you are—  

                      ready to talk about it. 

And I'm not sure when, but it's not now.

     But I "should be prepared."

As if you aren't talking about it now.

The live-in boyfriend of how many years?  

Whom I've never met. Not once.  

Treatment for PTSD.  He can’t talk to you 

for the first month?  Incredulous, 

I ask how you feel—  

emotion list, each one a new flavor.  

I don’t blame you.  

And his dad moved out,  

at boyfriend’s request.  

You don’t say why.

                    And I don't ask.

Instead I ask if I can send a Starbucks card.  

No, you say, there’s none in your town.  

         Walmart? Subway?  

No, you say, you're fine financially.  

And then you ask for dog pics.  

But it’s not about money.  

Let me send something!

Because I can’t be there. I can’t help.  

I can’t lay my eyes on you  

and know you're safe even

if only for those minutes I can see you.  

I can’t shake the feeling  

there’s a story within the story  

you don’t say.

So I buy $60 of healthy snacks,  

send them anyway. By Tuesday.  

See, if I didn’t care,  

                      if I didn’t love you,  

I’d be as dismissive as a customer  

caught in a grocery store clerk’s confession,  

saying, “Wow, you don’t say,”  just to get away.

Never mind that 14 years ago it was me calling you.

But, 

      That's a different story within the story.

alpha beta V

anyone anxious aloft assumptions and assertions

before boldly, brashly bouncing in

cool cat conjuring capital coal causation?

descriptions demand deep, dark doom.

even enough ego ensues errors exceptionally—

feels frank: frazzled, feckless, feline.

giving grief a good go, guesses gone!

hapless holyhead harpies heal heavy hedonal hopes

incessant incandescent incense inside.

just jimmy jack jiving john josh.

khaki keeps knitting kneeling knowledge

lift licks laments lamely loser lass

magic map manages mischief...my mistake. my misery. my move.

need new nails, new name, new nature, new noise!

obsessive oblique obstructs objective obtained

perhaps pet? pest? pin prick? pig? pigeon? pretty prat?

quiet quote quilled in quarterly quest queued.

reaching remote rightful rails running rampant real

slipping shrimp sensations satisfy seasonal soul

trying transient, total tedious type, tapping their temples

unwavering use, unquestionably ugly, undertaker

vessel vestige video, verily vilified value

we waste wax waiting while waif wonders wallets!

XXX

yes, y'all yearn your youthful yarn—

zero zoom zilch zigs.

red tape, red tents, red blood, red lines

"Practice Some Self-Regulation!"
You'd say—

As if inside me there’s a tiny senate,
Bureaucrats stamp forms, chasing signatures
To approve new policies:
Two men to a tent,
To cut costs—and throats—in war.

Self-regulation? You say I should practice it?
My emotions measured,
Against cost-benefit charts—
Too much, too little, dismissed as red tape?
But my feelings aren’t obstacles—
They open the door to my heart.

For millennia, my dear, remember,
Humanity has bound heartstrings in double knots—
Building families, villages, towns,
Even countries, long before we were born.
Back when a woman’s heart could lead,
Through the imprints of her children.
Children she bore, fed, trained—
Taught to rise when she called.

And they answered, for her love,
For it was only because of her
That there was something worth protecting—
No red dotted line ever signed,
No memo sent.

She didn’t "Practice Self-Regulation,"
And neither will I.

The more I love, the more I risk

Within the girl you know

     is a thousand more you don’t,

             each one carrying layers

       of love, though you might not see it.

   For it comes out as fear. Fear of:

         Rejection,

                    Losing you,

                                 You, not enough,

                 It not working,

                                Me, not enough,

    Death, 

        Moving,

              Falling apart—

                         Again, again.

      Failure,

              Success,

                   Stagnation.

              

      & Silence,

          &  Talking too much.

  Or not speaking up.

         Saying the wrong things,

                       Saying the right things,

             The truth,

           And the lies,

    Yelling,                   crying,

       Even fearing a laugh,

                                 being too happy—

What if the end is near?

                               What if it never started?

My Friends

These four women who may know of
each other but don't know each other, only me,
whom I hold close, like spokes to a wheel, rolling
down hills, valleys, and rough patches.
These four women, of whom only two have wombs—
I never mourned the loss but wondered where the ashes went
after the hospital discharge while they celebrated.
These four women who may know of each other
but don’t know each other, see pieces of each other
as I speak, for I am just bits of them,
strung together, and a single guitar pluck
could tear me apart.

how life flows

I am bleeding, lying on the couch.
But not onto the couch—
I’m petting a cat, whose claws once drew my blood,
now dried and scabbed.
I bleed now because it’s how my body was built—
a rhythm as natural as my breath.

You don't know me. I burned all the snakeskin.

Marriage gave me the indescribable feeling of a new name,
a new house, a new job, a new hairstyle, a new wardrobe—
and the chance that, when I walk through a crowd,
no one I’ve known will recognize me.
But moving to a new state brought a different kind of feeling,
the indescribable certainty that out here,
no one could recognize me, even if they tried.

here for whatever

Head on arm

—No pillow.

Sleep so good

And know

—I will never take more than you are willing to give

nor give more than you are willing to take.

felt cute....might delete later

What if God is movement—
of body, of mind, of emotion—
and God is a showgirl's wink,
when she teases, "Come and get me, boys,"
or an azure bird,
pecking at cat food
left out for a stray,
where God also lives.

But maybe God is in the way
I respond to you,
so quick, so eager,
while you reply so slowly—
I know you’ve built a curio shelf
of friends, a curated collection,
and I’m just another dusty knick-knack
sitting among them.

But for me, you sit
on a throne beside my altar,
where I've burned incense
for years—
you would know this
if you paid attention
for it is written in the speed of my reply,
anxious to never let the connection go cold.

what we say when we are hurting

You say it’s like being married to a three-year-old—

Trailing behind, cleaning up after them.

I think I could say the same, but I don’t.

So if I whisper, "I’m sorry,"

Or even yell it, for that matter,

You say, "Sorry doesn’t cut it."

So I turn on myself,

And mutter, "I’m the worst."

It’s a tactic from my younger years—

A child’s way of surviving.

Maybe now, we’re in agreement,

No longer fighting.

Instead, you’re mad I’d say such a thing

About the woman you love. I’m sorry again,

But sorry doesn’t cut it. There’s no winning

In a marital fight—just hurt. It’s kinda stupid,

Ya know, hurling our worst at our better half?