dirt verse

pie. skinny waitress filthy children adults that smoke teenagers who will only eat fries and the other women - staring out the greasy window with one glass tear that will never roll down. oh, and pie.

funny the ground is always cinnamon maybe the reason I look down is so that I may scrape it with my eyes into fine powder I choose to let escape into the dizzy south wind who will excavate this spicy trail? the vapor of female hands twisting in the moist turquoise my version of territory markings ever stop to think, perhaps I'd rather just not look up only to see the pain in every face void of the fragrant, soft earth

My aunt has been blind since birth. She's been known to cut the rain right out of the sky with a knife, so don't tell me you can't just stop crying. Just stop. *LIFE* the velvet hand of it, reaching up your dress for the silk and grass you are what you've become through the years: of mascara of hair of underwire the knuckles you have created to hold back so that your head is above water and feet firmly planted they knew to raise us this way with vined morning glories beaded up our spines to make our jobs look easy and prettier- but we know that we are in gardens - weeded high, hard to overcome our backs against trees old with gossip rough and dark and our knees, red from kneeling hearts, strong with yesterday hands, ready for healing.

the bridge of her nose is slick ivory and a stop sign for her glasses and eyes, marble and quick. arms raise to begin her story. hands motion like opening a creeky door into Narnia. Inside her unfolds the woman of her flame, red hair and a past life locked beneath her alabaster breast, beating, like ancient pearls.

I imagine she sits on her legs on her hardwood floor first comtemplating the room, then her pen and paper, then the freedom as she rips her way through every word until it is sand the sequence of movements after her fingers find ink, linking letter to letter about what happened last year or this morning at her stove or on her sidewalk who could ever know her or the secret that perfumes each wink and step. and of course, I had to ask. why she tears and destroys what she writes and scribbles, and creates? to which she replied sweetly, "because it's mine", with her small hand over her heart. oh, I think she is moonlight for having said that.

three homeless men gathered in the park with their plastic bags and collections of food scraps- of random cloth because it's january for goodness sakes I didn't feel the need to walk over with my money or walk in another direction, so I just waved hello. and smiled. When was the last time these guys had a woman say hello? I mean really.