Poetic Interlude XX

Illness

 

That cruel curl to your lip,

-the edge of your voice-

The rare lack of make-up

Masking your crumpled skin.

Rotting teeth, drowned sinuses,

Stubby thick fingers; crumpled nails:

Fresh blood on ruined wrists.

 

Barbara

 

The wind, she gusts strangely today:

Arguing, as a sign of love,

With familiar strangers, long acquainted.

Memories, foggy or absent, now,

Have dried on cheeks to dusty streams,

Pooling with brackish water.