Children

Every house
Is a blister
On the face
of Mother Earth,

Her skin
Rubbed raw
From a severed child,
Chaffing at the old ways
She sang softly
When we were young.

they say poetry
is cryptic.
i say
it is simply
how we think.

Fear

when my father is
gone,
my mother puts out
pots and pans,
beneath the windows
and doors,
the boiling fears,
bubbling up inside her.

Portrait of a Man

he drives slowly
over high speed
roads
so as to be gentle
on my delicate
frame
and this from a
man
who will not
embrace daughters
of his blood.

Cottage Cheese

i have never seen clouds
look so defeatingly
like cottage cheese.

Venus

the fact that
Venus
has been in the sky lately
could explain so
many
things.

there was a frog
that jumped
through our bonfire
a little life
unscathed
by idle heat