did not get made tonight for my mini lava
cakes, paleo-diet-friendly treats for PMS,
because the holder for the nitrous oxide
bullet was missing from the box. You are
outside building a chicken coup
so that I can have hormone-free eggs
for this new menu that is annoying
everyone in a house full of carb lovers.
Things that do not go unnoticed:
how you give me everything I mention
wanting, construct from wood
first one, then another deck to make
my swimming pool something more
of an oasis, to make a home
for foul to roost and produce perfect
eggs. I am ovulating twice a month,
shedding my unfertilized yolk, bleeding
too little to ease the twisting pain.
My sons are growing like the clover
that has taken over the bed
of lilies, their orange strangling
on too little sun, too much rain.
Our gladioli rotted in the ground, never stood
a chance of reaching vertical, purple
blooms that stretched skyward last year,
a distance that seemed so short,
so perfectly possible then.
The Road to Wraparound Road
is a street cornered by twenty-something’s
caught in the crosswalk of adult and childhood,
an expectant, entitled, self-centered populous
that does not know the difference between
questions and their answers, cannot recognize
the forest for the fallen trees. Big pictures
elude them as they dance from one diagnosis
to the next. Collectively, our children are called
clients, cases, cause for complaint.
We pass the most sacred of gifts
to hands that know nothing of loss.
We Meet Again in the Middle of the Night
Two strangers who have forgotten
what skin feels like on skin in the dead
of winter, warmth to share, steal, forgotten
the way two people can fit together, fruit
can taste on hungry tongues. I have
waited the length of four loves and twice
as many bodies to find you. Here you are
mine to discover tonight, forget tomorrow.