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.

At ordinary moments,
figures dart by
in shadow.
When I’m writing.
Doing dishes.
Tending to the dogs.

Kind spirits?
Malevolent?
Or harbingers?
And, if so,
of what?

The typical hug 

lasts 3 seconds.

So does the average

wave goodbye.

That first kiss

we longed for, the one 

that stopped time?

Take note, you have every right to be here.

But when you assert, ask, say no, or yes
old friends, patterns, habits will disappear.

Dare to take your place. Cast off phantom fears.

Ghosts of people you used to be? Let rest.
Take note, you have every right to be here.

Vow to disappoint everyone. It’s clear—
many won’t like you in your bold new dress.
Old friends, patterns, habits will disappear.

Moments slip. Memory

makes eighteen-year-old

son newborn. Savouring

sweet baby breath on my 

neck. Cradling a sacred 

being who was inside me

longer than he'd yet been

out. Tick tock of clocks

meaningless. 

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.