calligraphy

black ink
announces the marriage
of my lover to my friend

{i love you, i choose her}

perfect curves
stain the linen,
thin as a veil now

smelling of wet bark
from it's cigar-box home,
companion to shirt buttons
and a bobby-pin

size matters

does it matter the size?

the small regret of dying my hair blonde at 15,
it turning orange instead

the smaller regret of ducking my head & averting my eyes
passing Bill W. in high school hallways

the smallest regret of failing to sleep with Mike Mc.

what size are the regrets pointing fat baby fists
at my hallowed & hollowed self?

in a pressure cooker

there is something freeing about writing or attempting to write poetry, that is different than writing prose or memoir-y stuff.  i don't use the lines &  messy is good. when i am not worrying about lines it is good, when i allow myself to jump around it is good.
i had a many angry pages because of the boston shit. boston shit and snow on my birthday. and angry isn't freeing, it is stiff and linear. i could have filled pages with fuck. 
atrocities committed by a child the age of my child. 

you blew up toes & tibiae & tendons -
ahh, alliteration in your obliteration,
rhymes in your crimes -
and they say there is no poetry in violence