a slip of the tongue.

i woke up today with a mouth that stung

the corners of my mouth were raw

my lips swollen and sore

my tongue found the marks my teeth had left

and tasted the rusty salt

that comes from blood and tears

i'm tired of telling my secrets in my sleep

sick of letting slip the things i hid

to make silence worthwhile

its what i do when we sit next to each other

and don't say a thing

i practice not telling you 

all the things you don't know about me

i line them up neatly in my head

i'm afraid of thunder 

because of the way it shakes my bones inside of me

like the windows in a house

and reminds me how easily they shatter

I buy people i hardly know christmas gifts

and hide them around the house

so i don't have to give them

just know that i have them 

i kept the note you gave me wrapped around

a piece of dark flavoured magic

you promised would protect me from the night

like a treasure tucked away

i touch my lip carefully

watching the swelling dip beneath its weight

in my mirror thats speckled and stained

wondering if its worth it

every night accumulating these scars

just in case you learn

the secret of my silent smile

when we sit next to each other

and say nothing at all

one day 

when you're kissing me

i'll whisper, i'll ask you

can you keep a secret

and you'll say yes

you always do to whatever i ask

and i'll laugh and stay quiet

later you'll ask what i meant

what i was going to say-

so can i. 

by the way i don't love you.

children's codes for grownup games

i've been thinking about these

x's and o's

rearranging them in my mind

pulling them off that page

with their fuzzy lines

from your pen that always

leaks too much ink

your pockets are spotted with it

but its your favorite 

so i don't mention anymore

if i drop these letters in a grid

make them stand up straight

place them in orderly lines

maybe i'll have a better chance at overcoming them

these three x's 

the three impossible challenges

the woodcutter's son emptying the castle of bread

the miller's girl turning straw to golden thread 

the nobody's child sneaking her way inside your head

The first kiss

I wanted you.

The second kiss.

I was yours.

The third kiss. (oh triumph!)

You were mine.

three black strikes with a line struck through

it was tic tac toe and i love you.

Careful of the Antiques

she sat down to dust them last

as always, using their fragility

as an excuse to catch her breath

it seemed they gathered more figurines

vases and silver bells and useless things

every year and the dusting stretched

longer and longer every monday

but then tomorrow was tuesday

and scrubbing the marble floors was easiest

by far with her new brush that twirled for her

all she had to do was guide it

of course there was still the three floors of it

and the carpets to beat 

but it was the simplest by far

not much longer till then she sighed

and then the bells began

one after another with their rushing rings

pushing her up and along the hall

to see what it was they wanted again

last time they rung this loud it was a crown

with a prince thrown in

but that was half a lifetime ago

Cinderella set the slippers down again

they were far too fragile to dance in

The ritual before dreaming.

she would need a new brush soon

forty-eight, forty-nine

it was remarkable how soon they wore through

fifty-one, fifty-two

they made them better, in the old days

fifty-four, fifty-five

with the silver handles and thick bristles

fifty-seven, fifty-eight

none of this plastic nonsense

sixty, sixty-one

so light she sometimes forgot it was in her hand

sixty-four, sixty-five

and the flimsy pegs that fell out at the slightest tangle

sixty-seven, sixty-eight

how strange that my arms grow tired now

seventy, seventy-one

with this same old labour

seventy-four, seventy-five

and yet they are stiff and slow

seventy-eight, seventy-nine

and these poor fingers curl so awkwardly

eighty-one, eighty-two

around the smooth handles

eighty-four, eighty-five

how ugly they are and they used to be so smooth

eighty-seven, eighty-eight

oh well, such is the way of the world

eighty-nine, ninety

or as much of it as i know

ninety-one

the witches hands, hers too grew feeble,

ninety-two, ninety three

gnarled and arthritic they could not grasp

ninety-four, ninety-five

and her swollen wobbling arms lost strength

ninety-six, ninety-seven

till she could climb no more

ninety-eight

and so i have been alone these many years

ninety-nine

waiting with nothing to do but this

one hundred

and done.

Rapunzel laid her brush aside

and began to braid her silver hair.

Patience

i love the way you wait

with your fingertips just against the air

thats just against mine

and if i didn't know i never would

but i do

and it makes me smile

and the smile stretches all the way to my toes

making me larger

a growing thing 

full of strength and wellness 

and suddenly its your fingers

against my fingers

and we are waiting for no one

Tropical Hideaway

they complain about the records number

tell me its not the heat..

its the humidity

and i nod, i agree

and they wondered why anyone,

looking at me

would want to move to this tropical misery

and i shrug and don't say a word

about i have not yet had to

put on a coat

my thick wool coat

that traps scent like treasure

and saves it away for snowy days

it still smells of you

of your hand at my waist

of your arm across my shoulder

of safety and silence and the strength under your skin

and i cannot bear to put it on 

without your fingers adjusting the collar

pulling my loose curl and putting it back

worse than that i cannot take it off

face the world without your warmth around me

lose the scent of you in the cutting cold air

and shut the door to my empty house behind me

letting all the cold air in.

They say only a fugitive would choose texas in the summer

choosing between it and hell

and they ask me what I'm running from.

a coat and an empty closet

next to mine.

and they were embarrassed to see me cry.

isaac missed the point.

This time it is the loveseat

its wooden claws curled in upon themselves

and i laugh to see the way it seems to fight

against the indignity of the dirt

the dust that curls up around it

like a lover's touch sinking gently

into each curve, each carved curl

it may be stubborn in its shine

such a proper Victoria

with her straight back and sloping arms

and how the upholstery tucks in tight

leaving no seam visible, as is right of course

This is why I chose it today

to push it, quietly protesting,

out the silent sitting room and down the stairs

with a bump that would have shocked her

but what did I care

so here it sits

drawn up in itself

in the middle of this flat expanse

they politely call a yard

and I call a desert, a weak piddling excuse for it

but a desert nonetheless

and here I leave it to retreat to the porch

the storm breaks like judgement

splattering across the tight fabric

like machine gun fire

and I wait laughing

when the lightning hits I am not surprised

the gods have taken my offering in the spirit it was given

piece by piece I accept this destruction

moment by moment they steal my genes from me

and when the last knot comes undone

the lightning will come