Poetry

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Pulling out, Johnny almost hits the old nun. Her blue habit flapping in the breeze. The sun catching the stubble on her chin, the deeply etched creases in her forehead.  Her mouth is a dark oval of terror and time stops. Her feet don't move.

We find it too late. Its beak

a delicate sword, stuck

in our patio screen. It should be

buzzing, vibrating. Searching

for the sweetest sip

inside every flower.

But the busy wings are silent. Stilled.

What we need is north of here.

A season to chill the bones,

to make breath visible. A time

when promises take shape

in the form of steam. 

Cherophobia

is a ridiculous word 

for my condition: "Fear

of happiness." For months

I refuse to admit

pleasure can live

in a world without you.

The typical hug 

lasts 3 seconds.

So does the average

wave goodbye.

That first kiss

we longed for, the one 

that stopped time?

Argument loops,
spirals,
out of control.
“I’m moving out!”
he yells.

Rant continues.
Her mind wanders.
All the furniture? His.

House will be empty.
She’ll not hurry to fill it.
Will savor open spaces.

I was 27 when my mother pressed 

her wedding band into my hand.

I'm so angry. I don't want it.

Startled by venom in her voice,

I took it but told her I had no idea 

what to do with it. Melt it down,

sell it  give it away. I don't care.

When the genie appears, I'm in a frivolous 

mood. First request? My mom's apple pie.

Genie, exceeding expectations, delivers it

hot. As steam rises from slits in its cinnamon

dusted crust, I cut two slices. One for me.

One for Louisa, my hero. My second wish.