She Hates You, She Loves You

In the early dawn before the sun

splays its fingers across the lawn

to scratch and pet the thirsty green,

a fickle thing, love.

Her mouth full of bitters and sweet,

mandrake and licorice,

to kiss with a sting,

dual natured or mercurial being?

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Deaf

I say this from rooftops,

In a ballroom, in pails:

I once heard, in ’90 and ’04.

But also I’ve muted:

I’ve tuned cotton, mimed

the Hallelujah, scrubbed doors,

waxed poetry, even hummed a tune!

Yet my affliction remains silent:

ruptured drums, rapture comes–

so much of me numb

my ears weep for their loss

but doves still cry.

The Reason Why She’s Late

He could run the shortest time,

from there to her then the farm:

for the dinner bell was chiming;

he added a dash of charm.

Horses whinnied and neighed 

as they trotted past the barn.

What are they to each?

She waited with bated breath.

Through the front door, 

he turned to her and smiled.

The electricity charged her for 

the coming face-to-face.

He said, “Mom, Dad,

 I’d like you to meet 

the reason why I’m late.”