THE FINAL BATTLE

In his dinosaur pajamas
he fights invisible foes
jumping from sofa to floor

In his imaginary attack
he defends our castle
from invading pirates and pigs

In his little twin bed
he vigorously holds sleep at bay
until an instantaneous silent surrender

FLOW

Unfurl your fingers
Unclench your jaw and learn to
Smile with your life

WHEN EVENING CAME

There were nights when he was kind
when he smiled and pretended I was
actually his wife, and not some 19-year-old
girl he'd knocked up accidentally
and married out of duty.

There were nights he wasn't so sweet
when he'd sweat and scream as if I was
the reason he was so angry, and not just
some child who'd accidentally
become a dutiful woman.

SUDDENLY I'M DRUNK

Southern Comfort
Comforting a friend
Friendly women
Women's lounge
Lounge singer
Singing along
A long cab ride home

SUDDENLY SOCKS

When Southern California
sees clouds in the sky
and the drip-drop of rain
begins splattering the sidewalk
like a Pollack painting
I wait for puddles to pool
so I can splash ankle-deep
coating my feet with cold
and suddenly wishing
I had dry socks

END OF THE LINE

A tribute to Dorothy Allison, an author whose words are so precisely
sincere and honest and crisp that they slice straight to my core.

Dorothy came from a long line
of women who gave themselves
to grease-covered Appalachian men

They were high school girls who
perpetuated their misfortune and passed
it to a new generation every 15 years

They were girls who gave themselves
to boys whose filthy fingers fumbled
with the zippers on their jeans

and the clasps on bras that covered
the fresh buds that they pawed at impatiently
with rough, callus-covered claws

They planted their seeds after three
or four pumps of pleasureless procreation
leaving their offspring to stand at the end

of the ever-increasing line of poor
Appalachian bastards whose family trees
were as mangled and tangled as the gnarled oaks
the Allison clan once climbed

I'm getting old

A link to my PAD (Poem-A-Day) Challenge drafts from this year and last. Some good, some bad, some terribly ugly. But hey, you've got to start somewhere, right?

PRECIOUS HOPE

Daddy said he loved her
as he pushed his way
between her legs
in the dark stillness
before Mama came home

QUE SERA SERA

Some days are good
Others are just good enough
For me to get by without
wishing they had been better

GIVE HER A HAND

She could count on one hand
the number of times
she'd given herself to a man
and he'd given something back

She could count on one hand
the number of times
she'd walked into town
and they hadn't whispered behind her back

It took one fist to shut them up
one finger to tell them what they should do
and one tear that would betray her
that she'd wipe like dust from her eyes
with the back of her hand as she counted
the lonely steps and kept walking