Skeleton Propellers

I am a skeleton,
calcified and chalk white,
dressing my bones like wounds.

You will find me leaning on street poles
In war zones, airplanes overhead beating out
Staccato weepings.
I am both vanquished
And strong,
Simultaneously held up,
Yet becoming one with the support structures bearing your groans.

I know every language
Or a semblance of them.
They whistle, how they whistle through my ribs like bullets
And take lodging in place of my lungs.
I wheeze out salt particle words,
Meant to flavor but ignored and sent
To mingle with your rationed sawdust,
Controlled destruction.

I am tired like a sinner
Who has worked too much magic.
My fingers cramp and ache.
Pent up frustrations
Form phosphorous to line
The crevices of my nail beds.

We send sparks to traverse the canyon walls,
Wearing out gun bays on your wings.
One day I will miss and light myself on fire,
a pyre tribute,
And my bones will give you new sawdust
With which to paint the sky.



Today I drive
Fast enough to make
The air a vacuum
Or ghost fingers reach down to
Steal breath. I thought

The radio would be just what I needed,
But someone is pressing
Pressing the accelerator,
Thieving sound and
All I’ve heard is the rush
Of my own ears. I find myself

Taking a razor to each individual
Hair tangling with the wind.
I will feed the cyclones
Silken strands
Each slice a small tribute.
When I am
Cold, bald and smooth,

I will give you all these tokens
Of my former self.

Why I have planted a tree for every anniversary

She said she found her calling stronger
Dancing on attic rafters.
I asked, once, who would catch her
While she conducted pirouettes
On the top branches of the felled pine in my backyard.

She spun
and spun
Harnessing nothing but wind
To court my advances and framings.

Once, we’d talked about
Flying or reaching heights together.
I wanted nothing more than to see her soar higher.

When things went south, I took an ax
And brought branches within grasp.
She frowned,
And said nothing could be a gift when it took away life.

A pointed look at the pastor.

He would shuffle uncomfortably,
His spirituality stealing with an awkward lack of grace
The side-steps you mastered with ease.

Nothing was easy after that.

Today, I ride the bus alone
To a job selected solely for its ability
To steal my creativity.
I have put my wand away and I conduct no movements
Since you were whirled beyond reach.

Each day I return home
To treads in the attic dust,
I find your threads on rafters
And hang them in the front yard for the wind to tangle.


When you potted light
To replace
The dying and wilted red fern on my back porch,
You told me it would grow strong
And fight shadows out of my corners like
Dragons out of caves.
You told me to
Let it wear the weather
Like a cloak and said
A glimmer of sun would always bring it
Back to life after the rain.

I asked where the roots and
Stems and leaves and
Birds singing in the branches were,
But you smiled,
Said they’d show up one day.

For years it stayed,
Growing stalwartly through the changing seasons.
I cleaned out snow drifts and autumn leaf bits
And exercised the fledgling tendrils of sun
By letting them weave dances around my fingers.

I was singing the other day,
When you appeared, hand outstretched.
I returned your planter with a smile,
Light pouring through the cracks in my teeth.


The humid air let you
Carve figurines out of the heat.
You always did like to mold,
To form and bend and shape and
Until you were the haze blurring out my windshield,
Trying to wave edges like the summer sun.

Water will ghost-whisper your name, talking
Through the flashes of white from street-lamps and
Through static in my ear from using headphones in the rain.
The fleeting reflection of headlights on wet pavement,
Dances ahead, skirting the branches of trees
And courting the cracks of lawn between bushes.

I read the tapping silhouette of your body beside mine
a Morse transience like
The flashes of red reflectors
“You drive on the wrong side of the interstate.”
You have always carved safe havens out of danger.

So drown your engines down
Down below the water and I will follow you in.
Keep your fists clenched and white
As you pull me under,
and I will follow you in.

When humidity crashes like waves,
You are the space and I am the haven.
I am the space and you are the haven.

Why I Stopped Reading the Newspaper

haven’t written you in years
Since you eased the barrel
from my lips.
In passing, I’d promised
Monthly letters to showcase
Our travel plans and
To tell you I was alive.
I am, but I’m not sure
I was then.

You were warm to me,
like spring, or melted better
Reminding me of my mother’s cooking.
I kept you in
Stacked cases and storage containers,
Sealed places built to hold on to
Things not meant to last.

I read the other day that
You had followed my footsteps
a little too closely,
Successfully kissing
Round metal barrels and flirting
with steel. You always thought
Your red lipstick could save you.

A week later I found a box
Under my doormat.
Inside it, a suitcase containing
Souvenirs from places we’d planned to travel.
I’d promised to write, but you
Said everything with
The brand new Mary Kay
At the bottom of the pile.


When we were young
We’d raise such a storm
Raking leaves the wind
Pulled down last night

We’d take turns on the
Giant blue tarp,
Laughing, dragging each other down
The hill in the back yard
Somehow missing every pacing stone
Mama fretted about.

It wasn’t until I turned 13
That I started worrying
About how the puffy purple coat I wore
Clashed with the blue
and the red and orange and gold of
Leave fading to brown.
and I watched mom pulling you
Slowly down the hill, avoiding rocks.
Your laughs were never as loud,
but I was too proud of once
Catching the neighbor boy’s eye
before he moved on, and before I wanted that back.

I wish I could say I got better,
but I turned into a bitch and a liar
Fighting for 10-odd years
Against you representing everything
I know I was but continued to run from.
Your laugh was as warm as ever
When I finally came home
and I only cherish family dinners now
because I didn’t have them for a while.

If you had told me 10 months ago
That the best step forward
was back,
I would not have understood. But,
I remembered how leaves felt stuck in my hair.

I tried on that damn purple marshmallow
The other day, and
You just laughed at me and
Handed me a rake.