The Skirt


Image

You laid your plaited skirt
on the foot of my bed,
neatly folded as though
in doing so you could somehow
retain your virtue.

In the midst of our fleshy thrashing,
I kicked it to the floor, and you began
to cry, deep sobs that rattled
the mattress springs.

I moved, too reluctantly, to retrieve it
but you said, “Why bother? You’ve ruined it.
You’ve ruined me. You’ve ruined everything!”

Making love doesn’t always
mean making sense,
and so I threw my feet to the floor,
pulled on my jeans, and looked back,
although I would never be able to see.

“So that’s it?” you sobbed.
“You bastard!”

I smiled In affirmation, buttoned my shirt,
and turned toward the door,
and as an afterthought, picked up
your once plaited skirt, tossed it
carelessly over my shoulder,

and left.

 

Secondhand Love


I'm stuck here in this life I didn't ask for. There must be something more.

I’m stuck here in this life I didn’t ask for. There must be something more.

Walked away and I won’t look back
Can’t be bothered now by the love you lack
Saw my reflection in your cold, dark eyes
You heart was closed , but that’s no surprise

Can you tell me, was I just another man
Filling a void in your selfish plan?
Will the love I felt simply fade away
Like a clear blue sky on a cloudy day?

My life is passing like a babbling brook
Devoid of substance because of all you took
Did you think I’d surrender? Did you think I’d die?
Like a worn out book that’s been tossed aside?

I’ll Just say goodbye and be  on my way
You’ve had you fun, now simply drift away
I won’t be played like a child’s broken toy
Your second-hand love is devoid of joy

The Skirt


red-skirt

 

You laid your plaited skirt

on the foot of my bed,

neatly folded as though

in doing so you could somehow

retain your virtue.

 

In the midst of our fleshy thrashings,

I kicked it to the floor, and you began

to cry, deep sobs that rattled

the mattress springs.

 

I moved, too reluctantly, to retrieve it

but you said, “Why bother? You’ve ruined it.

You’ve ruined me. You’ve ruined everything!”

 

Making love doesn’t always

mean making sense,

and so I threw my feet to the floor,

pulled on my jeans, and looked back,

although I would never be able to see.

 

“So that’s it?” you sobbed.

 

In affirmation, I buttoned my shirt

and turned toward the door,

and as an afterthought, picked up

your once plaited skirt, tossed it

carelessly over my shoulder,

 

and left.

 

The Skirt


 

You laid your plaited skirt
on the foot of my bed,
neatly folded as though
in doing so you could somehow
retain your virtue.  In the midst
of our fleshy thrashings, I kicked
it to the floor, and you began
to cry, deep sobs that rattled
the mattress springs.  I moved,
too reluctantly, to retrieve it
but you said, “Why bother?”
Making love doesn’t always
mean making sense, and so
I threw my feet to the floor,
pulled on my jeans, and looked
back, although I would never be
able to see.
“So that’s it?” you sobbed.
In affirmation, I buttoned my
shirt and turned toward the door,
…as an afterthought, picked up
your once plaited skirt, tossed it
carelessly over my shoulder,
and left.

A Midnight Violation


Bathed in an ethereal light
this child has no skin in the game
yet her trust holds demands
she cannot bear.

The creak of her bedroom door
snatches the sleep from her eyes
and in the darkness, horror descends;
her pillow, once soft and warm,
betrays her and once under, now over,
muffles her surprise.

Beneath his weight, she dissipates -
her cries muffled in the night.
Her fright smothers  – she gasps for air
and he’s still there, grinding her
fragile hips into dust.

God looks on, and in His fashion
does nothing to intervene;
a celestial voyeur.

Stuffed animals bolt to the floor
one after the other, and with them
descends lost innocence;
her face laced in spittle, and she’s so little.                               

He rolls over, spent and condemned
as blackness descends to fill her.
Nothing is as it seems, but not a dream.
Tears wash away the vision of
this violation.

He rises as she plummets;
this child painted with the smell of
cigarettes and cheap liquor.
Morning filters through frosted panes
but she finds no warmth in the rising sun.

They’ll be no accounting for this sin
and no childhood left within this shattered
shell of a child.  A darkness, deeper than sleep,
envelopes her lost innocence, as the
morning’s breeze carries the cry of angels.

Broken Smiles


Behold, such sadness in her eyes;
sweet longing, deep sighing, for days gone by.
A single translucent tear descends,
etching a deep, meandering rivulet
through her softly powdered face;
betrayal writ in her broken smile.

She wears defeat with noble grace.

Alone within her cruel vexation,
Her despair drifts upon scented air.
I am entranced by this cheap perfume;
I cannot, I will not, look away.

Her emptiness devours me;
I am lost within her reverie.

A thousand questions knit into one:
What tragedy before unfolds?
Has deathly illness laid low a precious kinship?
Perhaps a lover, forever fore-sworn, now departed?
Promises shattered like broken glass;
cutting her dreams into ribbons?

She rises slowly, partly turns;
her glazed eyes lock onto mine
but for a whisper of a moment;
I offer nothing more of comfort
than my own broken smile.

Tears well within my intrusive eyes
and I look away:
My empathy is my undoing
and shame rises to paint my cheeks
a mournful blush.

I turn again and she is gone!

Years have passed
and still my broken heart
beats in imperfect rhythm.

Was she set before my vision
or concocted from memory’s revision?
Did she find her peace once more;
perhaps some comfort in our communion?
Even now I feel her sorrow
like a midnight fog rolling over me.

My tears have long since dried,
but my cry is eternal.