Author: poetryfest

WHY DON’T YOU GET BACK WITH CINDY
SHE KNEW HOW TO LOVE YOU
It wasn’t my ex wife’s nastiest tirade but it was nastier than usual
And you know, that’s what happened when she left
The universe has a funny way of speaking in irony
And it’s ironic that a few serendipitous swipes would have your picture sitting in my face
Gorgeous, untouched by time
I remember all the wrongs I had done to you
And parts of dead hopes I buried
Along with the bluebird in my chest
Long ago
I swiped right, you had already said yes

We picked up where we left off
Karma had been repaid 10 fold
Evident by what I just got out of
I atoned for my wrongs and in your sweet grace
you still saw the golden heart in my chest
You’ve been the only one to ever hold it
Your touch was so dainty, your hands tiny and tattooed
You always said you fit when I held you
I finally agreed, All of these years later

We were supposed to get married
We imagined what our kids would have looked like
The parents we’d be to each others
We shared our souls
We made love with passion
I’ve only known true passion with you, and that’s why we never work

The last time we were intimate
It wasn’t intimacy
It was fucking
Olympic level fucking
You’re delicate, and I told you I never wanted to hurt you again,
Emotionally or physically
But it was your birthday, and you wanted it
harder, and harder

Deep enough to touch your lungs you said
Until I turned you on your stomach and you couldn’t take more
Ravished
The heat of the June night cranked up 10 degrees

And with your blissful smile and those cut eyes
I knew deep down that’s what I’ve been to you
I know why your sons name is a play on mine
Despite him being the same race as his father
I’m a toxic fuck imprinted on your heart
And a whole me is to much of a old friend
rather than THE old fuck

Did you get that baby turtle on your ankle for me?

My crybaby

My little black suicide girl

I was nothing to you
but you were
everything to me.
Just a little something
to show you how
I love you too.
I’ve loved you
this entire time.
I’m sorry I didn’t
repeat those
three little words
back that night.
Can’t even imagine
how the pit of your
my stomach must’ve felt.
There’s a lump in
my throat where your
heart used to be.
I’m like a wounded cat
trying to receive love.
Simply incapable.
I’ve never experienced
what love was or could
be, should be
before you

Oh well.

The cab would have been too much,
did you take the bus?

The asphalt felt soft as I walked with
her to our favourite park.

Dating abroad never works.
I think we make better friends anyway.

When you lay your head
On my bare chest
I found it sinking in.
Slowly.
Through my flesh.

You fell asleep,
Like an infant, unaware.
But the lead weight
Of your skull
Wasn’t an infant’s.
You sank slowly
Through my chest,
Between my breast.

Was it the weight of the memories you collected.
Or the hidden sorrows.
Or the broken promises.
Or the things from the past

FABLE OF FOOTSTEPS

Through bramble and brush,
Slow or a rush,
Over gravel or stone,
Far from home,
Cloudy or rain,
When you were in pain,
I’ve been there,
Regardless of wear,
With you all the way,
Day after day.

When you were uninspired,
I never tired,
When you needed protection,
From infection,

When you needed support,
From that wart,
Mile after mile,
Pile after pile,
No matter dusk or dawn,
If you’re feeling stepped on,
Or under tread,
Step with me instead.

On one foot or two,
I’ll get you through,
Love you,
Your shoe

Crafted truth
might grow playthings
The first step
treats
Then tired problems,
most powerful frenzy.
Then
the
moment.

inspired by “A Rumor” by Safia Elhillo

say i sunk my teeth into a peach
say the sweet juice dripped down my chin

from the place where my lips part
down to the curve of my jaw

say i painted my face with a cherry
& tied the stem in a knot with my tongue

say i am a performer say i made a choice
when i chose to eat the peach

say that i was too proud say that i deserved
to be torn apart and sewn back together

with the petals of black dahlias
say i am a wife & not a husband

say i am a slut swimming down a river
say he should have held me under

& saved them all the trouble
say i’m confused say it’s just a phase

You are my eclipse
and i am the hero of the story i haven’t written
i’m not a request nor
the fact that we really didn’t pay to see
how this story plays out
i have half remembered dreams
to undo my claws
please
use your jaws of a hair press
to curl the edges
of your faded penumbra
so i won’t find that edge
that i’ll always follow

so follow me (i could be slower)
to my artificial ravine
bequeath me (i could be grateful)
words i’m too young to know
age me (i can get older)
so that i won’t find your youth
that i’ll always follow

i’ll be here
i might always shiver in the dark
but don’t peel away the stars
when we are all
splayed on the stairs
I like them here
and
how do you still

after four nouns
one proper
no prepositions
and leather wrapped bindings
make the trash
look beautiful
in the back of my yard?

AND they drink.
The wine meets her upper lip taking some of the lipstick with it,
Down her throat,
Into the bottomless pit that is her stomach
Leaving a smear that would never be cleaned off.

He has drunk almost an entire bottle by himself.
He hasn’t changed,
She comments on it.

You haven’t changed .

I have.
His blunt response halts conversation.

Still the same refusal,
Always right never wrong.

That is what he’s like.

He raises his glass again.
The red liquid stirring from its sleep.
And then the harder landing,
That comes from slight misjudgement,
When in a drunken state.

MORE wine, another bottle.
Thank God she left him.
He apologises.

Always so critical,

It’s improved.

Good. Excellent. If you say so.

She knows why he retreats behind his menu,
He embarrassed himself.
One of the few things he does well.

Come on, no sulks, be nice.

She knows that only by talking will he come out of his shell.

THEY shake hands.
His hands, sweaty, clammy,
Omitting the alcoholic odour.
His, firm then light,

then firm again, in hers,
then slowly withdrawn, wanting longer contact.

Better?

A grunt, in response.

It’s getting there,
It’s always a slow resumption.

SO. Who’s to start?

You.

Short and sharp,
Still embarrassed, he needs more cajoling.
Still in is impenetrable cocoon.

Right.

His glass, always drained,
Hers hardly touched.
She is drinking in moderate quantities,
He is drinking by the bottle.

Next it will be a Magnum,
Followed by a Jeroboam.

Judiciously, he brings the levels level.
Of course, she notices, despite what he thinks.

Right: I’ll tell you everything I can.
The wife, struggling to force him out of bad habits,
And a loving mother battling with two wild children.
I’m busy, with no complaints.
And then work,
Authoring my books, reeling out the pages.
And Paris.

Now it is her turn to be wistful.
She could be in a lovely boulangerie.
Wistful thinking, another thing he is good at.
Will he ever change?

Every trip I looked
In the window of
Diesels that passed by
Neck craned and sanguine

Every commute I hoped
To see them on the road
My last memory was
The convoy

Every drive I tried
For years, to find the one
That didn’t want
To be found

Every trek I scanned
For any sign, thinking
If they saw me
It’d change their mind

Every ride I reflect
Breaking the cycle to
Be the parent that mine needs
And not the one I had