She Is Going

She is going toward that place
that folds its arms around each of us
at the end of our journey,
and I stand in the gully
beside her bed, watching
the slow rise and fall of her chest
as she pushes through the battered gate
of a well lived life
to limp over the last few cobblestones
leading home.
Her mouth is dry with anticipation,
so I lift a glass to her lips
already aware that my offering
will be refused; her milky eyes are focused
on a destination I cannot see,
not on the comfort of her pilgrimage,
and the water will drip down her chin
like the trickle of a dying stream
in the desert.

Still, I cannot help myself.

My emotion tells me to weave
her fingers in mine to guide
those final steps, even though I know
she will drop my hand at the door
and leave me behind.

Falling Back

Falling back from himself,
he saw what he
could have been
if he hadn't spent
so much time
falling back from himself.

I Killed My Wife With a Butter Knife

*Note:  This is the result of a challenge that I could not write a rhyming poem in two minutes.  Yes, it's a bit goofy, but I think that it's also kind of cute in a grotesque way.

I Killed My Wife With a Butter Knife

Her blood was red
but tasted blue.
I put a little
in my stew.

Her brain was chewy
and kind of tough.
With one bite,
I'd had enough.

Her thighs were soft
and very sweet.
I decided that
I liked that meat.

I wonder where
my wife would be
if she were not
inside me.

Maybe I'm a cell phone failure

But

I will not spit my words into

a tinny tiny box and have them collapse

into digital impulses that ricochet

through your aural cavity, leap your

synapses, strain your neural connections,

and end up forgotten

when a simple smile and wink

will define every inchoate bleat

issuing from my mouth.

Calla Lilies

When he walked into the room
and saw, on the bed, her still body,
shrouded under crimson covers,
her head buried in the pit
of the calla lily pillow she loved
to grow her dreams on,
his heart stalled. Kneeling,
he brought a hand to her hair,
and traced the strands
with his fingertips, as if that act
might bring her back into his world.
He leaned in to smooth the skin
of his cheek against hers, felt
her breath warm the narrowing space
between them, and he was revived.

Touch Me!

Touch me!
Run your fingers over my face
and say, I know you.

Say, I know how you feel
when the unshed tears dry
but the residue still salts
the shredded skin of emotions,
prickling your wounds until
you scrape away the scab to reveal
the festering sore of a word
not spoken, an innocent comment
that slashed deeper than a knife,
the silly remark that grew
like a cancer with its memory.

Touch me!
Let your fingers linger on the scars,
exploring their invisible ridges,
until they feel like your own,
then say, I know you.

I love:

I love your nose
I love your lips
I love your toes
I love your hips

I love the way
our hands entwine
as if to say
I'm yours, you're mine.