Crime Of Passion

In the Snow - prismacolor pencil and whiteout on paper

The Tortoise Loves the Hare

Friend, Don’t tell me how to run my race.

Just because you can’t reach

the finish line doesn’t mean

I have to stall in second place,

slinking in your shadow

since you “know what’s best

for me.”

I stand on my own feet,

I run to who I choose.

I will dance, I will fly, even

if I pass you by. Keep up

or I’ll leave you in the dust.

To The Once Ingénue

The giver of blood and love is fragile

as it beats faint within the fold of your

broken breast. The giant’s grass of the forest

sways gently in the wind, unaware of your

selfish weight crushing the earth below.

You used to dance with grace as light as a breeze

among the blossoms of spring, but now you

have been stripped and knocked down, lying

heavy in the cold dirt of disenchanted

winter. You bury yourself in the decay of your

innocence as the rain of remorse now pours down

your cheeks. The one who did this to you feels no

regret. You let him take the silver trinkets

from your pain-streaked body and he

hung them from the bedpost that he might

admire those trophies of his conquest.

You have given up that blissful ignorance that you

once held so dear. Now you must stand alone and

face the world, for he is not there to lift you.

There is no changing what has been done.

One Speck Spoils the Glass

Awake in a photo. Black and white, head hurts too much for color. Loose black slacks drape over a barely there dress on the floor. Milk on the nightstand in front of a background of wood. My hands rest on my stomach. Is milk on my skin? Man’s milk, perhaps. I want milk. What did I do last night? Rolling over, see what I did. He has a stressed smile, spindly at the ends, emblazoned with a promise. Don’t think I want what he’s offering. A sour taste coats my mouth. Turn over, drink the milk. If only the creamy froth could make my insides in its image. The word “milk” crowns everything. I too would like to be pure white.

Tentative Tango

One, an unfamiliar smile

I don’t know how to understand.

Fingertips brush my waist, hem

of shirt, pale skin untouched

by sun. Hot breath on my ear,

body to body. Hand resting

in the small of my back. I want to

not want you as much as I do.

Two, palm runs down my side

breast to thigh. Breathe your sharp

scent. Gasp for forgiveness. Push

away, pull me close, make me

melt into seductive warmth.

Mold to match your form.

I am in over my head, and I

like not being able to breathe.

Three, tempo moves too fast,

past the barrier that was your

car door. Pressed to you,

horizontal, clothing optional.

I can’t keep up with four/four time.

Wonder if Eve knew what she

was getting into. Did she know

fear before the fruit?

Four, I can’t understand myself.

Fear, frustration, desire, despair,

give me room to breathe, I’m not

ready to go without air, not ready

to take that bite, not ready to

want you. My skin aches as you

pull away, disappointed. I guess

I don’t know how to dance.

Track 1

A little conversation is all it takes on

                    the beach at day break. Kiss me gently

                                   as quiet notes waft across the sand

                         out of the open door of your car idling

                                             in the background. The only sound is

                                        you and me and the pristine waves as

                                                            your lips sear your name on my

                                                  tongue and the soft guitar serenades

                                 the silence. Hold me closer, feel me warm

                    against you. The water is beautiful.

Gas Prices Skyrocket

He bluffed, “It’s the cheapest you’ll find a vintage sports car.”

She huffed, “It looks rather new for a vintage sports car.”

Love for the ages: soft, steady, slow, and sweet, or a

flame: fast, beautiful, and deadly, like a vintage sports car.

Pulling off her shirt she felt revealed, reviled, repulsive,

telling herself it’s not trashy if you do it in a vintage sports car.

Cherry red, blood red, red wood. Scattered under moonlight.

On the accident report they called it a vintage sports car.

Heaven forbid honesty! Hide your feelings, your secrets,

undercover. Like in the driveway, a vintage sports car.

Status symbols: a Rolex watch, a million bucks, a

yacht in the bay. Trade your wife for a vintage sports car.

The past thrown away, left to rot and not be remembered.

Left to decompose in a junkyard next to a vintage sports car.

Lost, lonely, loveless? Ditch the club, forget online dating.

One thing that can never leave you: A vintage sports car.

To escape your problems you must run far away.

My suggestion? Zero to sixty in a vintage sports car.

A gold-digging robbery! Get away with his money, his heart,

a license plate reading RAY-RAY on a vintage sports car.

Temptation (Part One of To Save A Wretch Like Me)

The first part of the collection, To Save A Wretch Like Me, tells the story of the two lovers meeting and getting to know each other. It is during this section that the narrator, the girl, begins to question what she's been raised to believe, and pulls away from the familiar to join the boy on a path towards uncertain self-discovery.

To Save a Wretch Like Me

Palms sweat thick as blood. I fold them so as not

to stain my skirt, too clean, too white. The wine of redemption

burns my throat, bitter next to the sweet sin so heavy on my

unholy mind. The call to confess crushes the

soul. There are no secrets left. I can’t look up, can’t

burn my eyes with the sight of his neck, red with the embarrassment

of awareness beneath a shock of blond. He sits two rows ahead,

his head bowed in humility, and I sink to the depths of the

earth, opening to swallow me beneath the altar before me,

drowning me in the tears of the women at the cross.

Confess?

The Boy That Never Was

There’s a candle in my window for

the boy who never was.

It flickers just as brightly as

the laughter in his eyes. The warmth

inside his heart is matched by nothing

but the flame, and the tiny drips

of melted wax, intricate as his mind.

The candle burns to mourn this boy,

the one I could have loved.

He may have lived - this boy, indeed.

But mine he never was.