Muse

There!

sitting,

standing,

coiled up, sometimes,

beneath a ladder

or a chair

or a tree,

perhaps

and each time

stretched

a bit too far
away -

just the length of

a cinnamon stick

whip

Long after the welts
have crusted
and the black blue bruises
have faded,
I simmer
gold and amber,
with the longing
to hold that whip
tightly
in my feeble hands
its razor claws
hungry
to gnaw
as my lips
quiver with the delight
of biting back
a guilty smile

the classroom

this child is a small one,

just taking in its first gulps of

arid air,

it is only a moment or two

before the choking

and the spluttering will start

(again).

but it can be stopped

(smoothly)

with the swipe of a crusty foot.

The Month He Lent Them

his eyes

are closed

teasing words out of the

cozy corners of his

crowded mind.

his fingers

flicker

lightly over the soft rug,

etching words

over ornate designs.

an image over another.

when the murmurs outside

stop

words that were running around

wild

climb back into his skin

where they belong

artists and actors

red,

you had said

red!

I had said

this is the

color

of our delirium.

a river

between

the parting in my hair

Bathroom Break

crouched thus,
the cold, tiled floor
has much to offer

the steady drip from the rusty pipe
plays background music
to this mocking scene

spent,
cocooned in
muted humiliation
I wait
for another wave
of nausea
to live up to this glorious moment.