Do not lick your lips wanting war;
it does not fare well for anyone,
especially fearful children
simply hoping
to wake to tomorrow’s rising sun.
top of page
Search
One day, I will break free
that shadow now pulling
back across the dead,
yellow grass and into
that darkest of places
where the bright winter
sunlight is most eclipsed
by my own frozen form.
Her stop sign red fingernails tap
tap the frumpy brown Formica diner table
in an impatient beat, melody in double time
of the easy light music
juxtaposed her heavy fried food
and hard decision.
In translucent golden plastic, her water ripples
ripples from inside to outside, perimeter to center,
but in circles idling back into their inceptions
before her crooked glance away
to reflections in the window's glass
where her green eyes go.
She stutteringly utters the whisper
trust your soul . . .
bottom of page