They chatter, chatter, chatter,
Words drip like gasoline,

They're clumsy with their matches,

And the dissonance in me,

Is all that remains-

After the ignition.

I'm showered by the ashes
Of our condition.

1.2.3.4.5.
2.3.4.5.
3.4.5.
4.5.
5.
All the strands of pretty hair--

505

There used to be food on this table.
Mom would bake
Chicken
And
Rice,

And when Dad
Would come
Home
Late
From the
Football stadium,

We would
Have bellies full of
Warm conversation.

Then
Annabelle--
[All stink and fluff]

Would stain my cheeks
With her good kisses,

While I rested my head on
Mom's decorative pillows
As the murmor of
Late night television cooed me to sleep.

     And I was
        C e n t e r.


The gaping hole in the ceiling
That the fire ate out
Never got repaired.

We saved the dogs.
We all escaped.

We survived.
We are thriving on
Ventilated air.

But when the mailman came by
The 505 house today,
He looked for my
Left and my right.

  To which I responded:

"I'm sorry sir.

      I'm the
        Only
        Monroe
           Still
           Here."

Jaw slung wide,

Brow bent low;

Set on sea salt

And berry wine, 

He cocks his hips to one side. 

His calloused knuckles edge into the 

Binding pockets of his rigid denim. 

A low moan, 

From his broad throat

Traces the curves of my cheeks. 

He is umber, and earth and

Pine;

The pinkness of his mouth grazes

The tips of my eyelashes. 

I, 

With

Pomegranate lips

In stupor, 

Am full of soft kisses

And private whispers

In cooing reeds.

My wet toes delve into the 

Soft banks. 

I approach him with the softer side 

Of my velvet hands

Facing heaven.

He traces my palms with his skin.

He memorizes my freckles. 

The hems of twilight 

Grace 

The 

Moon washed 

Egg white 

Canoes. 

Docks rise

And beads of Michigan

Glisten on the backs 

Of geese. 

In Amber, 

In Tuscan, 

In silhouettes of

Anticipation-

I worship in his morning,

   As 

" His breath

Falls around me

   Like dew."